The Detective and The Debutante
by EloiseAtThePlaza
Summary: "Your dance card is empty. The waltz is up next. You've been the epitome of a wallflower all season long and you haven't danced with a single partner tonight. I'd like to change that." (Sherlolly Regency Era AU)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm in the process of moving my fics from AO3 to here since I know some readers prefer this site to the other. 'The Detective and The Debutante' currently has 8 chapters. I'll be uploading them all eventually! For now, enjoy :)**

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For Molly Hooper, love wasn't an option nor had it ever been one.

She'd read about all sorts of love, of course. The tortuous, all-consuming love that destroyed from the inside out, breaking you down into nothing more than a shell of your former self. The tender, innocent love that melded into something incredible and unbreakable if given time to grow. Everyone dreamed of finding that one person to set their hearts aflame and tilt the world on its axis.

Molly wasn't much of a dreamer. Not anymore. She used to be. Realism had won over eventually, as it was much better suited to soften the blow of inevitable disappointment. And her situation _was_ inevitable, at this point: she'd been on the marriage market for three going on four seasons. She'd been dubbed a hopeless case after her second.

It had been ingrained in her from the start that she couldn't afford to be picky. Her family had fallen on hard times ever since her father's untimely death and it was up to her (as she was constantly reminded) to find a wealthy husband to pick up the financial burden. If a gentleman were to seek her out and begin the traditional courtship process she was expected to reciprocate his attentions. It didn't matter whether said gentleman was old, rotund, smelly or just plain cruel. A significant fortune was the only requisite as far as her mother was concerned.

Unfortunately, Molly hadn't received a single marriage proposal during the three miserable seasons she'd been a debutante. Not one. Her mother blamed the lack of success on Molly's shoddy posture and tendency toward the eccentric.

'_All that talk of medicine and human anatomy isn't decent. It drives off the suitors, dear. Men do not wish to hear a lady speak of such things, especially a lady who slouches. Sit up!' _

Molly wasn't as easily fooled and knew that her failure to find a husband stemmed from the fact that she was a wallflower. A shy nobody. And a plain one, at that.

All of her efforts went unnoticed no matter how hard she tried to put her best foot forward at the endless array of garden parties, dances and evening balls. She was no match for the young, vivacious diamonds of the first water who took each season by storm with their pretty white gowns and coy smiles.

After a while, Molly gave up on her futile attempts altogether and resigned herself to sitting in the farthest, most secluded corner of whichever room she happened to be in. The only attention she received nowadays was an occasional pitying glance or a snide, hurtful comment mock-whispered from behind a fan.

She always kept her head held high when surveying the crowd from her little nook, never once giving anyone the satisfaction of catching her with a trembling bottom lip or tear-filled eyes. Because love was a luxury and an illusion. It was never an option.

Imagine Molly's surprise when, on a particularly fine spring evening that she would have rather spent curled up with a book, she was approached by the most eligible bachelor in all of London.

"I'd like to claim the next dance, Miss Hooper."

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin and almost spilt her glassful of punch down the front of her dress as a rich, deep baritone voice permeated her thoughts. She looked up – far up, considering how tall he was – and met the eyes of none other than Mister Sherlock Holmes.

"P-pardon?" she squeaked.

Mr. Holmes let out an exasperated sigh in response and held out his white gloved hand for her to take. Molly could do nothing but stare at his proffered hand with something akin to horror. _Sherlock Holmes_ was asking her to dance with him. Sherlock Holmes, the man who had eluded every matchmaker mama in all of town. Sherlock Holmes, the overwhelmingly handsome yet exceedingly arrogant man who'd pronounced Molly's coming out ball as a disaster many years ago.

"Your dance card is empty. The waltz is up next. You've been the epitome of a wallflower all season long and you haven't danced with a single partner tonight. I'd like to change that."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: A HUGE thank you for the amazing reception chapter 1 received! So many follows/favorites/reviews...opening my inbox this morning was like Christmas! Lots of love to you all! **

**Also: read the endnotes for historical tidbits if you're interested in that sort of thing.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Color crept high in Molly's cheeks at the prospect of not just dancing but _waltzing _with this man. Despite the _ton's _familiarity with the dance, the waltz continued to stretch the boundaries of propriety due the amount of body contact involved. Out of all of the beautiful, younger debutantes he could've asked, why on earth had Sherlock Holmes singled her out for such a risqué number?

"You…want to dance? With me?" Molly clarified.

The irritated look she received for asking such a question made her heart skip an uncomfortable beat. "I loathe repeating myself, Miss Hooper. Either dance with me now before it's too late or spend the rest of this odious evening sipping your punch as you tap your foot along to the music."

His quick wit nipped her hesitancy in the bud. Molly was up out of her chair in an instant, her glass of punch cast aside to one of the footmen. Making sure to avert her eyes, she gingerly placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to usher her out to the center of the crowded dance floor. The room was practically buzzing with conversation as gossipers realized who Sherlock Holmes had on his arm. _How odd we must look together_, she thought, what with his understated elegance and her mousiness.

Mr. Holmes cut a striking image in his immaculately fitted navy tailcoat and cream-colored waistcoat, the latter of which was crafted from the finest of silk. His dark, unruly curls were brushed forward on his head in a common style amongst the fashion conscious gentlemen of the _ton_. He looked all the more dashing and rakishly handsome because of it, though it pained Molly to admit it. At least she knew the 'rake' part was a ruse since he never paid the slightest bit of attention to the gaggle of young debutantes who tittered and sighed whenever he entered a room.

Still, with his devil-may-care attitude and haughty brow it was easy to picture him grabbing an innocent damsel and ravishing her behind a potted fern. Molly felt a hysterical giggle bubble up in her throat at the very thought but managed to squash it down lest she embarrass herself in front of him.

They remained silent as they assumed the beginning position of the waltz and waited for the orchestra to tune its instruments. Molly had never been more anxious to start a dance. The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled from the stares and whispers directed her way. She felt as if the onlookers were gleefully biding their time, just waiting to witness her fall or stumble or _worse_, tread on Mr. Holmes's dress shoes!

"If you consider the sheer multitude of idiots present this evening, Miss Hooper, I'll think you'll find that their opinions concerning you are meaningless," Mr. Holmes reasoned as though he could read her mind.

Molly met his gaze, smiling slightly. Her stomach settled just a bit as she found an answering smile lurking in his eyes, the humorous gleam betraying his otherwise aloof appearance.

Her case of nerves returned in full-force as the first strain of the waltz started and she was led around the dance floor, her right arm linked with his left arm across the front of their bodies. Molly had only danced the waltz two times prior to this evening and felt more than a bit ridiculous in her movements. Given that the first section of the dance required that she place her left arm on Mr. Holmes's broad shoulder, the enforced intimacy certainly didn't help to alleviate the discomfort.

"I understand, Miss Hooper, that you have an interest in modern science and medicine."

_That_ certainly distracted her from how incredibly close they were to each other, or how she could feel his well-defined shoulder muscles ripple beneath the woolen barrier of his tailcoat.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes? How could you possibly know—"

"I didn't know, Miss Hooper, I noticed." With practiced ease he transitioned them into the proper position for the slowest section of the waltz. Molly's breath hitched in her throat as his large, dexterous hand came to lightly rest itself atop her waist. Mr. Holmes gave no indication that he'd heard her gasp as he continued, "I've formed an acquaintance with your brother. We ran into each other in Hyde Park last week. He's home from Eton for the summer holidays, is he not?"

"Yes he is, but—"

"He had in his possession a book on Galvanism, newly purchased. A bit strange, don't you think, for a schoolboy just shy of eighteen to possess a publication on the subject?"

"Not at all. To insinuate that a lady would be interested in such a radical science is even more peculiar," Molly spoke up, surprising herself.

One of his perfectly groomed brows arched and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His look clearly read 'we both know that's not quite true'. In spite of this Molly maintained his eye contact, thoroughly convinced that looking elsewhere would give away the truth altogether.

"It's not my intention to alarm you, of course," he went on to say as they rotated slowly about the room. "I only ask because I happen to be interested in the same thing."

Curiosity took over and Molly momentarily forgot her place. "You are?"

He grinned back and Molly suddenly felt lightheaded, although her dizziness had nothing to do with her twirling about on his arm. She now understood why he scowled so much; it would take but one of his arresting smiles for every female in attendance to swoon, leaving the men to revive the lot of them with smelling salts. "There, now. Was that so hard, Miss Hooper?"

Oh, _blast_! She'd walked right into that one without even realizing it. It was too late to deny that the Galvanism literature was hers (doing so would no doubt insult his intelligence). Molly had no other choice but to explain and hope that he'd be civil enough to keep this newfound information about her less-than-genteel pursuits a secret.

"Mr. Holmes. You must understand—"

"Sherlock."

"I'm sorry?"

His grip on her waist tightened by an infinitesimal amount, just enough for her to feel but not enough for others to see. "Call me Sherlock. 'Mr. Holmes' is the name reserved for my corpulent elder brother."

"I…I can't call you that!" Molly whispered, aghast. She glanced about but fortunately the music served as a deterrent for any eavesdroppers.

"Why ever not?" he countered.

The tempo of the music changed, signifying the livelier nature of the Sauteuse. Molly couldn't help but let out a small sigh of relief as they withdrew from their close proximity dictated by the previous dance section. Apparently all of her composure flew out the window when she could feel his breath tickling her skin or when he graced her with that smile of his…like she was the most fascinating person in the entire room.

"It's not proper, Mr. Holmes," she was quick to explain, and Sherlock (_Mr. Holmes_, she berated herself) let out a small cluck of disapproval.

"And a lady reading a book on Galvanism is proper?"

"If I call you by your given name will you stop mentioning that?" she pleaded, desperate for a change in subject.

"Only if you give me permission to call you Molly," he retorted, that perpetual grin of his still plastered across his face.

To the casual observer it would seem as if he was attempting to charm her, but then Sherlock (_Mr. Holmes_!, she corrected herself) hadn't given her the time of day until just now. Where had he been for the past three years? Why hadn't he approached her during her first season when she still had a spring in her step and a hopeful heart? It didn't make any sense, not to mention she hardly fit the bill of what the _ton _considered a "catch".

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, trying her best to ignore the knots forming in the pit of her stomach.

The dance steps were becoming more energetic and taxing. Molly was losing her breath but Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he said, "Because you need my help and I need yours."

"Why do I," she paused for breath and to adjust her grip on his shoulder so she wouldn't stumble, "...why do I need your help?"

"Your late father's fortune is steadily dwindling. He left you a dowry but it isn't much, is it? Not enough to entice any bachelors to overlook your obvious flaws, at any rate."

She kept her expression neutral even though she experienced an acute twinge of hurt in her chest. "My flaws?"

"You're timid. You've always been an introvert. Small talk is challenging and you constantly second guess yourself for fear of being misjudged. There's the self-consciousness, as well: you're hyper aware of your body and its relation to mine. Your pulse was elevated even before we started to dance, no doubt due to your nervousness over my forming the wrong impression of you."

"Anything else?" Pinpricks were forming behind her eyes, making it difficult for her to form a cutting retort.

"Your appearance. You've a pleasant face but your lack of confidence is evident in the way your hold and dress yourself. You pick out your own dresses, correct?"

"Y-yes? Why?"

"Thought so. The cut of your gown is unflattering and matronly. Your dress is hardly suitable evening attire for a young woman and yet you chose to wear it tonight. Why, you might ask? Because it makes you feel safe. You'd rather wear frumpy clothing than dress in anything age appropriate or accentuating. Any attention is negative attention in your mind."

"Mr. Holmes—" she tried again, on the verge of tears.

"You asked me why you needed my help. The answer is rather obvious by this point, isn't it? I'm wealthy, attractive and sought-after. It will do wonders to your reputation to be seen with me. I set trends and people follow them, Molly, so by tomorrow your poor butler will be swamped with calling cards from marriageable gentlemen. Mark my words."

The waltz was nearing an end and Molly was humiliated. The overwhelming mortification threatened to spill out of her in full-fledged sobs as the weight of his words sunk in. He was offering to _feign _interest in her in exchange for her help.

"We haven't much time left, Molly, so I'll explain myself succinctly." He gave her a reassuring smile but it only served to inflate the uncomfortable lump lodged in Molly's throat. "I've kept a secret profession for years- that of a…_sleuth_." He whispered the last word, and it was his turn to pause and check for eavesdroppers. "I need your help because my newest investigation has to deal with Galvanism- a subject with which you are familiar."

"I'm h-hardly familiar with it, Mr. Holmes! I've only attended a few of Luigi Galvani's public demonstrations—"

"And yet you wish to discover more. That much is clear by your newly acquired text on the science."

The dance ended and the couples around the pair of them clapped and cheered. Sherlock withdrew his hands from her waist and offered her his arm. Molly grudgingly placed her trembling hand atop his forearm as he escorted her to her empty seat.

Back in the secluded corner, Sherlock gave her a regal bow and Molly curtsied in return whilst fighting back tears. "Will you help me?" he asked, his expression steely, all remnants of his previous smile gone.

"W-why should I?" she asked, inwardly wincing at the sound of her weak, quavering voice.

Something must have registered in her inflection because his eyes softened as he took in her wounded stance. "If you decline you'll spend the rest of your life wishing you hadn't. That's a promise. Good evening, Molly. You may expect a call from me tomorrow morning."

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Notes:

1) The "ton": Britain's high society during this time.

2) If you read the waltz section with a 'WTF?' expression on your face, that's because the Regency-era waltz is very different from the version we're familiar with today. I found a website that describes each section in detail. If you're interested in taking a look feel free message me and I'll send you the link. FF isn't letting me post it :/

3) Galvanism is the bringing to life of organisms using electrical currents (think of Shelley's Frankenstein). Needless to say any refined Regency lady would think twice before purchasing literature on the subject.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Once again, thank you for the awesome reviews!** **I'm glad you guys like it so far :)**

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"Why did you do it?"

The sound of his brother's voice shook Sherlock from his reverie. He cleared his throat and downed the last sip of his cognac before acknowledging the question. "Be more specific. I do a lot of things."

The elder Holmes issued a long suffering sigh as he sat himself down on the settee. The furniture emitted an audible creak under the added weight. Were it not for the early hour, Sherlock would have taken this as an opportunity to offer his brother insult. A mention of his consuming one too many pastries at the party? An overused taunt, perhaps, but nonetheless effective at getting under Mycroft's seemingly thick skin.

"Why did you waltz with Miss Hooper and why are you deceiving the poor girl into believing that you are in any way interested in courting her?" Mycroft clarified, his tone of voice heavily laced with disapproval.

"Who says I'm deceiving her?"

Sherlock reluctantly turned away from the mantelpiece and instantly wished he hadn't as he was accosted with a proper view of his brother's snug evening attire. For all the money the man had, one would assume that he would have invested in a decent tailor long ago. The inseam of his trousers begged to differ.

"Come now, Sherlock. Frankly I'm surprised the _ton _is falling for the farce. A wealthy, in demand bachelor pursuing a mousy slip of an old maid?" Mycroft grimaced as if he had encountered a rancid smell. "It sounds like the plot of a penny dreadful."

Sherlock gave a snort of derision and made his way to the side table to refill his tumbler full of brandy. "She's twenty-one. Hardly an old maid."

"Even so, you couldn't have found someone less suitable for courtship if you had scoured the entire _ton_. She is undoubtedly not your type," Mycroft countered.

"My type?" Sherlock rounded on his brother, his annoyance now dangerously close to the tipping point. "Don't be daft. I don't have a 'type'. If I did I would have married her by now." He wouldn't have, really, but Sherlock couldn't think of any upsides to bringing the much-debated topic of his unwillingness to wed into this particular conversation. The ensuing argument would only serve to aggravate both of them.

These insufferable talks happened less frequently nowadays, what with his being an adult and no longer wreaking havoc at Cambridge, but Mycroft's patronizing ways were no less grating on Sherlock's temper as they had been when he was a boy. It certainly didn't help matters that his tormentor was now lounging on the sofa as if he owned it, his hands folded atop his protruding stomach and a smug smile on his face. Sherlock had half a mind to bridge the distance between them and swipe that ugly smirk right off. He refrained from doing so out of mere convenience to himself. Mycroft gave him a hefty monthly allowance and he was a smarter man than to forfeit the sum because of a petty row.

Besides, it wasn't as if he received any monetary compensation for the consultation he gave to the Bow Street Runners. Until the day came when he could offer his services to the general public without any foreseeable backlash in the form of a scandal, he had no choice but to continue to be financially dependent upon his older brother and suffer through everything that that entailed.

"Though you are loath to admit it, you most certainly do. Everyone does. Miss Hooper isn't fit to be courted. It's all too clear to see why. She's plain, timid and her inheritance leaves much to be desired."

Sherlock clenched his jaw tight to keep from telling Mycroft in no uncertain terms to toss off. Who was he to question Sherlock's motives or dictate the traits he desired in the fairer sex? Hell, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain of his preferences himself. Harmless flirtation with the intent to extract information was one thing, but wanting a woman for herself? It was a foreign concept and it didn't sit well with him. It never had.

Annoyed that he had even allowed the conversation to reach this point, Sherlock took another sip of brandy for good measure and then asked in as pleasant a voice as he could manage, "What do you mean to accomplish by having this discussion with me?"

Mycroft clucked his tongue and rose from his seat. "I don't know what you're planning but rest assured that deluding this poor girl into a false sense of hope will only come back to bite you in the end."

"You act as though Miss Hooper hasn't the slightest clue about my intentions. Rest assured that she most certainly does."

Mycroft absorbed this information at length and then turned to gather his belongings. "If she's able to withstand your company long enough to assist you in whatever…harebrained scheme you've no doubt concocted, I'll eat my hat and then welcome her in with open arms."

"I wouldn't be so cruel as to wish for that to happen." At Mycroft's befuddled expression, Sherlock hastened to add, "Miss Hooper being forced to embrace you, I mean. I look forward to your hat eating. Lord knows it won't be the unhealthiest thing you've consumed in your lifetime."

With that, Sherlock swept out of the study with his glass of brandy in tow, leaving Mycroft to show himself out.

**o0o**

Molly Hooper was nothing if not resilient, surprising herself with a swift recovery from the initial hurt and disappointment. It had been delusional to think that anyone would truly want to dance with her anyway, much less a wealthy bachelor. Mr. Holmes was about as far out of her reach as the stars. If his frank assessment about her self-image and lack of suitors was anything to go by, he apparently thought so, as well.

Despite Mr. Holmes's blunt analysis of her less than admirable traits, she reasoned with herself that the truths he had unveiled only scratched the surface of her entire character. She was admittedly self-conscious. Nervous. Shy. An aging debutante with a measly dowry. She was sensible enough to agree with him about those things.

But she was also intelligent, helpful to a fault, kind to those who didn't deserve it and arguably most important: forgiving.

It wouldn't do any good to hold a grudge against Mr. Holmes. She sincerely doubted that he had said any of those things to intentionally bruise her already weakened ego. He simply regarded her as a means to achieving an end and had more or less encouraged her to use him in the same fashion. Molly understood that.

Did that mean she would allow him to evaluate her a second time around? Most likely, though she wouldn't stand by and take it without standing up for herself. Instead she would ask him to turn his observations inward. He was all too happy to unlock the secrets of those around him but after their brief _tête-à-tête, _she had every reason to suspect that all of the scrutinizing was his clever way of stamping down his own insecurities.

With this in mind, Molly braved the rest of the party with a stiff upper lip and a determination to prove Mr. Holmes wrong. Though she wasn't nearly as tenacious as Miss Sally Donovan or coquettish as Lady Adler, Molly could be the epitome of sweetness when she wanted to be. She could draw attention to herself if she put in a concerted amount of effort.

Something must have worked in her favor because another man asked to dance with her not one but _two_ times. She accepted on both accounts, her reason being that although he was nervous and a mediocre dancer, she could see herself living a comfortable (dare she say happy?) life with someone like Mr. Richard Brook.

**o0o**

The next morning came much too quick for Molly's liking. She found herself nervously stewing over a late breakfast, all the while wondering whether Mr. Holmes would ever show. He had promised to call in the morning and it was nearing noon. As if his absence wasn't disheartening enough, her butler was hardly 'swamped' with the amount of calling cards that Mr. Holmes had guaranteed he would be.

She had just about given up hope altogether when poor Wiggins rushed into the dining room, looking extremely flustered with his hair out of place.

"I told him that you were otherwise engaged, Miss, but he is adamant to speak with you! He came without a calling card – what is this world coming to? I am aware that his elder brother is a powerful man but that doesn't give him the right to barge on in, demanding this and that and turning this entire household topsy turvy!"

Elizabeth Hooper lowered her lady's magazine to gawp at Molly from across the table. "Lord in heaven! And here I thought that you were just spinning lies about Mr. Holmes intending to call on you!"

Molly bit her cheek to keep from retorting and then rose from her seat, throwing her napkin atop her barely touched meal. She turned and gave a sympathetic smile to Wiggins who was shuffling from foot to foot, obviously in distress. "Thank you, Wiggins. Please tell Mr. Holmes that my mother and I will meet with him shortly."

The butler graciously thanked her and then stalked out of the dining room with a renewed sense of purpose, no doubt prepared to put Mr. Holmes in his rightful place.

"Gracious me. I haven't seen Wiggins in such a snit ever since William slid down the banister during that dinner party years ago," Elizabeth mused. She, too, rose from her seat and methodically brushed off her morning gown before rushing across the room to do the same to Molly's.

"Mother. Please! There's no need. From what I could gather last night, I don't think Mr. Holmes is the type of man who –"

"Molly dear," her mother cut in. She made a satisfied clucking noise in the back of her throat and then moved from straightening Molly's dress to messing about with her plain, practical chignon. "It is said that Mr. Holmes is secure of a very considerable fortune. It's in your best interest to look presentable. It's in _our _best interest. William has another year at Eton and then there's his university tuition to consider."

"We danced one waltz, mother. That's hardly indicative of marriage. Need I mention that Mr. Holmes could have _anyone _in the entire _ton_? And I do mean anyone. It's highly unlikely that he'll even stay for tea."

"Not if I can help it," her mother vowed, stepping away from Molly and surveying her with a small smile. "You're brushing this off as less important than it truly is. You danced with someone, Molly! Not only that, but he's called on you and is currently awaiting your presence in the salon!"

Molly chewed on her bottom lip as she obediently listened. Would it be wise to confide in her mother about what had happened? Would it do any good to voice that Mr. Holmes wasn't interested in her at all but rather her knowledge about an obscure, inexact science?

As much as she wanted to set the record straight, Molly knew that her mother would be devastated to find that her daughter's one chance of marriage was nothing but a sham. Would it be so bad to pretend for a little while, long enough to see her mother's eyes brim with tears of pride instead of regret, at least?

Mistaking Molly's silence as nerves, her mother drew her in for a tight embrace. "There's no need to be shy. He sees something in you, Molly. Wouldn't you like to find out what that is?"

Molly already knew the answer to that. Mr. Holmes didn't see anything in her. He barely knew her. She didn't count in his eyes. Her insides twisted into a painful knot at the realization but she somehow managed a tight smile before replying, "Yes. I'd like that very much."

It was going to be fine. She would help Mr. Holmes with what he needed and then they would break off the courtship when the time came. It wouldn't hurt anyone to go along with the plan in the meantime.

Anyone save for herself.

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Notes:

1) I've made Mycroft as large as he is in ACD canon. Although it's hard to imagine Mark Gatiss as anything but 'whippet thin' (his words, not mine), I'm asking you all to suspend disbelief :)  
2) The Bow Street Runners will be making several appearances in this story. Since Scotland Yard was formed in 1829 (roughly ten years after this story's timeline), I felt more comfortable with researching a different police force altogether than complying with ACD canon.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thanks again for the reviews! I'm in the process of sending out thank you messages to you all individually :) **

**Enjoy!**

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Within five minutes of his company, it was clear as day that the real Sherlock Holmes was an enigma. With all his effortless chatter and compliments, it was as if the haughty man from the night before ceased to exist. He had been replaced by a friendly, charming stranger who clung to Molly's every word.

And treated her like she was the most delightful, beguiling creature in all of London.

It was exceedingly vexing and very strange. Her mother didn't know any better but Molly wasn't so easily persuaded as to be completely won over by his smile or the little hum he made in the back of his throat after a sip of tea. Nor his laugh, which sounded like the smell of brandy and felt like the taste of chocolate and…oh, that didn't even make _sense_!

The ugly truth? She was falling for his act and felt like the world's greatest fool because of it. Her shaky hands rattled the teacup in its saucer whenever he glanced her way, and her heart did an uncomfortable leap in her chest every time he asked her a question.

He was misleading in the worst possible way and try as she might, Molly couldn't muster the gumption to inquire about his abrupt change in temperament.

Although…she _could_ draw attention to his shrewd behavior in an indirect way, thus revealing the not-so-charming side of him. If he grew cross with her, perhaps she would she be able to reclaim some semblance of the resolve she'd thrown away the second he had promptly kissed the back of her hand in greeting.

"Mr. Holmes," Molly ventured as soon as the conversation had reached a standstill. He gave her his full, undivided attention, his eyes flaring with something that she couldn't quite identify, something that was at odds with his pleasant demeanor. The look sparked through her and made her want to shiver but she forced herself to continue, "You must show my mother the trick you used on me last night!"

"The trick?" he queried, his face a picture of innocence.

The ruse was good. Almost too good. It was enough to give Molly pause. "The...er…I'm not sure what to call it, mother, but I'd wager that Mr. Holmes can take one look at you and tell you your life story."

"Really?" Mrs. Hooper inquired, already unduly impressed.

Mr. Holmes's expression faltered and Molly felt an irrational, gleeful surge of something akin to…what was the word? _Shadenfreude_? The pleasure derived from another's imminent failure? Yes, that was it.

She leant forward in her chair, positively giddy with anticipation to see how this would pan out. Would he have it in his power to restrain himself and play the humble, self-deprecating gentleman or would he take the bait and unveil tidbits about her mother that she would be neither willing nor pleased to hear?

"I wouldn't be so bold to claim that," Mr. Holmes was quick to explain. "It's a parlor trick, as your daughter put it. Nothing more. I've trained myself to see things that others tend to overlook."

"Such as?" Molly prompted.

"Such as…your butler forgot to iron the newspaper this morning."

Mrs. Hooper let out a peal of delight and placed a hand atop her heart. "How did you know that?"

Molly purposely kept her face neutral; showing Mr. Holmes that she was as equally impressed would be seen as a forfeit, though she did sneak a quick peek at her hands to inspect her fingers. She didn't have any ink on them, did she? If she did, how on earth had he been able to see the miniscule stains from across the tea table?

With a small smile, Mr. Holmes gestured to Mrs. Hooper's hand. "You read the society pages of the newspaper over breakfast, yes? We all do. As for breakfast itself, most of us make use of eating utensils with our dominant hand. Your left hand is clear of any stains – you used it to eat so obviously you're left handed. This leaves your non-dominant hand, your right hand, to mark your place on the page. There's a small black smudge at the very tip of your right pointer finger. I first noticed it when you prepared my cup of tea." He raised his teacup in emphasis and took a small sip before continuing, "The stain is faded but it appears less than a day old. You acquired the mark this morning. Most butlers iron the paper to prevent the ink from bleeding so yours either forgot or didn't have the time to do so before you intercepted the paper from him. Seeing as you've just finished a late breakfast, the former explanation is far more likely to have occurred than the latter."

Molly felt a hysterical bout of laughter rise up in her throat. Her mother was gaping at Mr. Holmes like a fish out of water, too stunned (or perhaps too slow) to offer a reply just yet. Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, looked about as uneffected as could be. In fact he seemed a bit bored, as if he'd just been forced to discuss the weather.

"Good Heavens! That is…well. That is nothing short of remarkable, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hooper managed, still looking a bit dazed.

"Thank you, ma'am. You're much too kind." He flashed a winning grin; the kind that made Molly grow flustered and caused her heart to skip yet another beat.

Something in her expression must have given her true feelings away, as well, because her mother pointedly cleared her throat and gestured to the tea set on the table between them. "Molly, dear, why don't you pour Mr. Holmes a second cup of tea? I'll only be a moment. Poor Wiggins really is off his game if he forgot to iron the papers!"

It was an obvious ploy to give them a bit of privacy. No doubt her mother thought Mr. Holmes would use the opportunity to ask Molly to go for a stroll in Hyde Park or to accompany him to a fireworks show in Vauxhall Gardens.

The two scenarios were so improbable and at-odds with the version of Mr. Holmes with which Molly was familiar, yet that didn't stop a glimmer of hope from setting in as soon as her mother had left the room. What if he _did _suggest some sort of outing for the sake of being seen in public?

"Your mother is endearing even if she is a bit…" Mr. Holmes paused, apparently searching for an apt description.

"Silly?" Molly supplied, glancing at the door. It was ajar but she highly doubted her mother would stoop so low as to eavesdrop.

Mr. Holmes hummed his assent and set down his teacup. "As appropriate a word as any."

"I suppose. In her defense, you did talk rather fast. I daresay she found it hard to follow your train of thought."

"Most people do." He gave a self-satisfied sort of chuckle and leant back in his seat. "What about you, Molly?"

She'd almost forgotten about their conversation the night before, how he had insisted that they call each other by their given names. The realization sent another pleasant jolt through her body. This time it started in her fingertips and traveled up her arms, making goose pimples rise to the surface of her skin. "What about me?" she managed to ask, busying herself by pouring him a second cup of tea.

"Were you able to follow my train of thought?"

"A bit."

He raised a quizzical brow in response to that. "Give yourself credit where credit is due. You're one of the least insipid females with whom I've formed an acquaintanceship."

"Is that your idea of a compliment, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, purposely adding emphasis to his address. If he was going to be rude for no apparent reason, she intended to throw his tactlessness right back in his face…even if it set her nerves on edge. "Because if it is, perhaps you need more practice."

Mr. Holmes seemed taken aback for a brief moment. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before settling on, "Perhaps I do."

"I'm glad we agree," Molly said. She had intended to sound terse and authoritative but the words came out as more of a squeak. It certainly didn't help that the corners of Mr. Holmes's mouth were visibly upturned as if he wanted to laugh at her attempt to commandeer the conversation.

"What I mean," he continued, his gaze appraising this time, "is that you're undoubtedly intelligent. It's a trait few possess, even amongst those who claim to be well-educated."

Molly didn't know what to say to that. Thanking him for issuing her an underhanded insult seemed wrong, somehow, though she did take quite a bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that _Sherlock Holmes_, of all people, thought she was intelligent. Sherlock Holmes!

"That's very kind of you –" Molly started.

"I'm not being kind, I'm being honest. I've singled you out for assistance because you have a sharp mind. I'm also confident that your interest in Galvanism will help to move my investigation along."

"What exactly does this investigation entail?" she carefully asked, her eyes once again drifting to the open door leading out to the front hall. She hoped that his explanation would be succinct, because she doubted that her mother would be out of the room for more than five minutes.

"How much do you know about body snatching?"

Molly spluttered on her tea. Body snatching? What on _earth _had she signed up for? Had she unwittingly agreed to help Mr. Holmes dig up a body and dissect it for medical purposes? If that was the case, there _had _to be some way to decline. She couldn't go through with it! Not in a million years, not even if it meant spending time with him.

"You needn't look so horrified," he went on to say. "If you read the crime reports in the papers, you would know that there has been an uptake in body snatching within the past few weeks. Graveyards all over South London have been ransacked for fresh corpses."

"But why? Has there been a shortage of corpses donated to the medical profession?"

"No. I've checked the records of nearly all the medical schools in the city: Barts, Middlesex, St. Thomas', St. George's. There has not been a marked increase in the number of corpses purchased for dissection or anatomy lectures. Even if there had been, a clear pattern would be discernible. The exploited graves would be in close proximity to the schools; however, my preliminary research has indicated that the disinterment occurs south of the Thames. You must understand that body snatching is a risky business; it's carried out at nightfall and requires a great deal of stealth. A competent body snatcher would never haul a body all of the way across London to be sold. He'd surely be caught."

"So what is happening to the bodies, then? If they aren't being sold or donated?"

Mr. Holmes frowned. "I have a few theories but I am missing quite a bit of data. This is where you come in, Molly."

"Where I come in? What –" She stopped herself short as she registered the implication of his words. Mr. Holmes had enlisted her help because he knew that she was interested in the radical science of Galvanism.

Galvanism, wherein electricity purportedly stirred organisms to life. Molly had both witnessed and read about Luigi Galvani's experiments with frog legs. Her seat at his public demonstration had been at the back of the amphitheater but she could still remember the series of collective gasps that had reverberated through the audience. The lucky few who had snagged seats near the front had claimed to have seen the dead amphibian's legs twitch.

"It seems like a far-fetched idea, doesn't it? Bringing the dead back to life through the use of electricity? Yet I would hazard a guess that you weren't the only one who left Galvani's demonstration with many unanswered questions, one of them being 'what if?' What if it were possible to bring bodies back from the dead using the same method demonstrated by Galvani?"

"That's what you think is happening, isn't it? You think someone is digging up graves and electrocuting the bodies?" Molly whispered.

Mr. Holmes didn't answer; he inclined his head toward the door. Molly cocked her head and listened. She could hear her mother's voice some distance away.

"Time is running up. We can't have your mother listening in. Answer me this: are you still interested in helping me?"

"Yes." The answer tumbled out of her mouth before she'd given it a second thought. She didn't _need_ to give it a second thought. Mr. Holmes was offering her a chance of a lifetime. He'd even said as much the night before. If Molly decided to opt out, she would spend the rest of her life wishing she hadn't. The offer was too good to turn down.

"Good," Mr. Holmes approved with a nod. "We start tonight."

Mrs. Hooper took this moment to return to the room. "What starts tonight, Mr. Holmes?"

Molly jumped and nearly spilled her cooling cup of tea. Mr. Holmes gave no indication of surprise as he promptly rose from his seat and offered Mrs. Hooper a broad smile. "_The Magic Flute_, ma'am. The first opera performance of the season. Will you be attending?"

The conversation took a turn for the mundane at that and before long they were back to discussing the _divertissements_ that the London season had to offer. Molly didn't do much talking; she was too busy worrying as to how she could _possibly _slip out in the dead of night to accompany Mr. Holmes to South London.

South London, an area notorious for its burglary, prostitution, dens of ill repute…and, if what Mr. Holmes said was true, body snatching.

It was a realization which left Molly feeling more than a bit idiotic for agreeing so quickly and positively sick to her stomach with dread.

* * *

Note:

The idea to incorporate Galvanism into the plot came about when I was researching human cloning for a philosophy paper. In using Shelley's Frankenstein as a case study, I found out that she attended several of Luigi Galvani's demonstrations. The dates of said demonstrations are a bit foggy (some sources say 1790's, others say the early 1800s). Regardless of the historical accuracy, I thought Galvanism itself smacked of something that a young, bookish sort of girl like Molly would be interested in.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: You'll notice I'm slowly introducing characters as I go along. I can't resist. First Mycroft, now Mrs. Hudson, eventually John and Mary! But of course the plot will be Sherlolly-centric :) I just love to have everyone interact with each other in this 'verse.  
**

**As always, your reviews are so thoughtful! They are a joy to read. I hope you enjoy the fifth chapter!**

* * *

With midnight fast approaching, Sherlock packed his various supplies by candlelight, stopping every so often to listen for whether the household servants had retired to bed. He was greeted by silence each time.

After tucking his pistol into the deep pockets of his borrowed coat and hefting a rucksack full of clothes over one shoulder, Sherlock glanced about his tidy bedchamber one last time. Satisfied that he had not forgotten anything, he extinguished the candle and closed the door behind him, all too grateful for the well-oiled hinges in silencing his departure.

The flight of stairs leading down to the ground floor was another story altogether. Each individual step out of the seventeen creaked if he so much as placed a toe on its edge. It was a miracle that he reached the front door at all what with all the noise.

Relying on only his sense of touch, he slowly, carefully felt for the latch of the door's lock in the dark.

"And where do you think you're going, young man?"

So much for a miracle, and so much for assuming that sneaking about wouldn't awake the one person who would give him trouble for it.

"Out for a walk, Mrs. Hudson. That's what people do when they're in the throes of ennui, don't they?" He spun around on his heel and cocked his head to the side, feigning ignorance.

"Not at a quarter to midnight, they don't!" The small, elderly lady held a candlestick aloft with her right hand as she bunched her left one into a fist and propped it against her hip. Unfortunately for her, the effect she'd intended this menacing posture to have was entirely lost on Sherlock. A cantankerous Mrs. Hudson was the most endearing sight in the world, and he never missed out on an opportunity to tell her so.

"That doesn't work anymore, you dear old thing. It hasn't worked since I was about five."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson was across the entry hall in a flash. She reached up and jammed one of her bony fingers against his chest. Yet another attempt at scolding foiled, for the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. "You tell me where you're going this instant or I'll dump all of your tobacco into the fireplace!"

She meant it. That was one thing about Mrs. Hudson that he had always admired; she wasn't one for making promises that she couldn't keep. Still, it wouldn't hurt to play along. He was in an unexpectedly cheerful mood, after all. "I'd like to see you try…_nanny_."

Another poke to the chest, harder this time. Sherlock mentally prepared himself for the diatribe that was sure to follow.

"Don't think I won't, Sherlock Holmes! Need I remind you that I've known you since you were in nappies? And while we're on the subject, I am your housekeeper now, you wretch, not your nanny…although I sometimes feel as though I'm still chasing after that tiny, curly headed devil who used to steal lumps of sugar from the kitchen and run stark naked in the garden."

"Oh, don't you know? I still do that, sometimes. It's good for the body's constitution," Sherlock teased. He set the rucksack down and rifled through its contents in search of a hat. He took it out and jammed it on top of his head. Mrs. Hudson observed all of this with a skeptical eye.

"There you go again, trying to change the subject. At least tell me where in London you're heading in case I have to file a missing person report with the constable?" Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and brushed a bit of dust from Sherlock's outfit. He'd acquired it for next to nothing from Angelo, a petty thief turned butcher who operated out of Northumberland Street. It was a working man's outfit and a perfect disguise for the occasion, as was the hat he'd just donned: nondescript and drab. He would fit right in amongst those who prowled South London at night.

In an effort to avoid Mrs. Hudson's expectant look, Sherlock pulled his hat downward so that the flap in the front brushed the bridge of his nose. With a huff, Mrs. Hudson reached up and adjusted it. He ceded to her meddling with an answering sigh. "South of the river. I've some business to attend to."

"I suppose that explains why you're dressed like a ruffian on his way to a brothel?"

"No brothels for me tonight, Mrs. Hudson. Don't you worry." Sherlock picked up his rucksack again and then leant down to kiss her on the cheek. "It's only a disguise for a case."

Apprehension clouded her expression though she tried to hide it by fussing about with the off-white lapels of his shirt. "You'll be careful?"

Sherlock kissed her other cheek to placate her. "Of course. I'll be back in time for breakfast."

"You don't even _eat_ breakfast," Mrs. Hudson grumbled as she fondly shooed him out the front door.

**o0o**

The Hooper residence was fortuitously located in Berkeley Square, a residential neighborhood within walking distance of Baker Street.

Regardless of proximity, any area of London was a different animal after dark and made traveling on foot a troublesome business. One step in the wrong direction could cost a man his pocket watch at best or his life at worst, oftentimes both. Fortunately, Sherlock was a cut above the rest as far as directions were concerned. He knew every street corner in London so he safely made it to Berkeley Square in record time and with minimal run-ins with any passerby.

Upon his arrival, Sherlock surveyed Molly Hooper's townhouse at a distance. It was out of the question to use the servant's entrance in the back and barge into her bedroom, though the thought _had _occurred. She could be sleeping, after all, and the last thing both of them needed was to be found in a compromising situation.

There was nothing for it but to sneak around to the back garden and find out which bedroom on the second floor was Molly's. Then he could gather up a few pebbles to chuck at her window.

His mind made up, Sherlock readjusted the rucksack and steeled himself to quickly dart across the street under cover of darkness.

A quiet, ladylike cough stopped him in his tracks at the last second.

Having instantly recognized the owner of the cough, Sherlock slowly turned to face Molly Hooper.

Except it wasn't her.

Well…technically, yes. It was Molly, though she was dressed from head to toe in the garb of a stable lad.

"No need to infiltrate the house, Mr. Holmes! I'm right here. Don't worry, I haven't been waiting long. You didn't specify a time but midnight seemed right, somehow. Maybe it's because I've read one too many gothic novels as of late."

Her light brown hair was tucked into a cap similar to his own, only a few tendrils had escaped and now framed her face. Each of them helped to create the illusion of a masculine jawline.

The outfit itself was a perfect fit; it was loose enough so as not to draw unnecessary attention to the feminine flare of her hips yet it was tight in all the areas that one would expect it to be: arms, shoulders...legs.

"You look…" Sherlock started, only he couldn't think of an appropriate adjective to describe how utterly _brilliant _her disguise was. It put his to shame! Not to mention that he hadn't even noticed her until she had made her presence known.

"Like a stable boy? That's who I borrowed this from. Sort of. I bribed my brother to talk to Billy, our stable boy, because he's about my size and – well…" She gestured down the length of her body, stopping to scratch at her trouser-clad thigh. Her self-consciousness was out and in full force, it would seem.

"I've brought you a set of clothes though it's obvious you've given this excursion much more thought than I have." Sherlock dropped the heavy bag onto the pavement and straightened his back, sighing in relief. "It's a good thing, too. Your planning ahead will save us time." He gave her his best approximation of an encouraging smile.

Molly smiled in return and averted her gaze. Under the light from the nearest streetlamp, Sherlock could make out the subtle indentations on either side of her mouth. Dimples. Why hadn't he noticed her dimples before?

Visibly nervous by the lapse of silence, she let out a small chuckle and then tentatively looked his way again. "Should we get moving? I think the closest bridge from here is Westminster."

Words were flowing from her mouth but he only registered them on surface level (something about Westminster?) as he was far too preoccupied with contemplating whether her eyes had always been so becoming and vibrant. No, surely not. He would have noticed. Perhaps the light from the streetlamp was playing tricks on his senses by altering her irises from an unremarkable brown to a rich, vibrant amber?

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock. Just Sherlock."

"Sorry. Sherlock." She said his name slowly, testing its cadence and inflection as if it were foreign to her. Strangely enough, her reluctance to call him anything except 'Mr. Holmes' wasn't so much a bother as it had been during their first meeting. Truth be told, he now found this little nervous quirk of hers just as becoming as her eyes.

...A realization that was worrying on an number of levels.

Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts and hid the rucksack amongst some shrubbery, all the while avoiding her eye contact.

"You were right, you know."

"Hmm?" he glanced back up, adjusting his hat.

"About Wiggins being swamped with calling cards. Well, perhaps 'swamped' is an exaggeration. Six gentlemen visited me today after you left."

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his surprise. "Good Lord. Really?"

Molly nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her right ear. "Really."

"I'm pleased to hear it." He wasn't. In fact, he felt distinctly annoyed even though six different bachelors calling on Molly in the span of one afternoon had been his doing. The situation was laughable, really, only he wasn't laughing.

"And I have you to thank. I've never had so much attention though I can't say for certain whether any of them are genuinely interested in me. That isn't to say that I'm ungrateful for their sudden interest. I just – I _want_ them to find an interest in me, of course I do, but…I don't want to lose sight of myself to make that happen." She paused and let out a deep sigh, blowing a stray stand of hair out of her face. "Does that even make sense?"

Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum in response though he was sorely tempted to tell her that she shouldn't even bother, that the six men who had paid her a visit were mindless idiots, all of them incapable of appreciating the extent of her intellect and her propensity for kindness.

That sounded hypocritical, seeing as he himself had only known Molly for two days, but…Christ, even _he _knew her better than the rest of the six witless bachelors combined. He was certain of it and he now had an inexplicable urge to prove it to her, somehow.

"Come along, then. Westminster Bridge is nearly thirty minutes from here. If luck is on our side I'll be able to procure a hackney cab as soon as we cross the river."

He set off, his strides long and his gait quick. No point in slowing down for her benefit. She would catch up.

Besides, he was in sudden need of a proper sulk.

One, because it was late and his work required him to travel all the way across London.

Two, because he was off to spend the entire night in a graveyard with the sole company of his newly acquired female assistant.

The fact that this newly acquired female assistant had six different imbeciles vying for her attention had nothing to do with his foul mood.

Nothing whatsoever.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: This chapter is more plot-driven so it is therefore longer. Hope you enjoy! As always, thanks for the heaps of encouragement in the form of reviews!  
**

* * *

In hindsight, Molly should have expected that nothing would go according to plan.

To start, the trek to Westminster Bridge was unpleasant. Not only did Sherlock march ahead of her, too impatient to wait even a second for her to catch up, but he also ignored her several attempts at conversation by dismissing her questions as if they were all inconsequential.

"Do you have any spare change for the hackney cab?"

Silence.

"What's the name of this graveyard we're investigating?"

No answer.

"Have I done something wrong?"

This inquiry earned her a terse grunt that she could only assume translated to 'no'.

Molly was admittedly hurt that Sherlock had gone from being passably good company to downright rude in a matter of minutes. However, she was beginning to grasp the importance of leaving him to his thoughts.

They were traveling to a seedy area of London full of people with questionable morals. He was the only person who could ensure her safety. If he let his guard down for even a second, something could easily go awry and Molly would be left to fend for herself. It was as simple as that. If his giving her the cold shoulder meant that he could better concentrate on his surroundings and prevent anything bad from happening, she wasn't going to complain.

So Molly half ran, half walked the rest of the way to the south bank, all the while keeping her comments to herself.

Once over the bridge, Sherlock set about hailing a cab, an experience that proved to be ten times more taxing than their walk from Berkeley Square had been: too stubborn to wait for an unoccupied hackney to pull up to the curb, Sherlock took it upon himself to stand in the middle of a busy intersection in search of one.

It was a daring plan that eventually worked, even though the hackney's horses stopped just a few meters short of trampling Sherlock underfoot.

Molly had watched it all happen from a distance. Her abject terror rooted her to the sidewalk so she couldn't have intervened even if she had tried. It wasn't until Sherlock wrenched open the door to the hackney and climbed inside that Molly could even force her legs to follow his lead.

"The cab driver…has he been drinking?" she asked once she was nestled next to Sherlock inside of the vehicle. The hackney lurched into motion and she righted herself in her seat before continuing, "A sober driver would have seen a man of your stature right away. Ours acted as though he didn't see you until the very last second."

"Yes."

One-word replies were still in effect, then. Molly held in a shaky sigh and turned to look out the window whilst trying her best to simultaneously regain her composure and overlook the mounting evidence that pointed to their driver being a drunkard.

South London was bustling with activity. She'd never witnessed so many people going about their business this late at night. As such, she found herself ogling at the small glimpses of nightlife that she could see in passing. It was a different world...one that was far away from her comparatively normal existence consisting of a safe townhome tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. A different world where it was socially acceptable for a man to open a window and urinate onto the street below, to drink in public, or to grab a random woman and then proceed to molest her against the side of a dilapidated building.

Never had Molly been so grateful to be in possession of men's clothing, and never had she been so terrified in spite of her disguise.

"Stop worrying."

Molly tore her attention away from two men engaged in fisticuffs on a street corner. "I'm worrying?"

"You're biting the inside of your cheek, your right leg is restless and your hand has been placed over your heart for the last five minutes. I think it's logical to assume that your body language alone signifies worry, don't you?"

"It's the driving, mostly. But it's also..." Molly gestured to the street rolling by with a tilt of her head. "It's just that...I never knew."

"Never knew what?"

"That all of this…existed."

Sherlock stared at her as if she had just spouted a mouthful of nonsense. Perhaps she had. Perhaps he was used to encountering this level of poverty and depravity in his line of work. Molly hastened to explain herself. "The children begging. The blatant drinking. The men acting like barbarians and manhandling the women. All the noise and commotion…oh, God, the smell. I don't think I've ever encountered such an overwhelming odor in my entire life. I've read about these conditions but I've never witnessed them firsthand."

"The smell takes some getting used to," Sherlock reasoned, looking amused. Molly inwardly bristled. Was he making fun of her now?

"I could never get used to it," she retorted, crossing her arms and turning away to peer out the window again.

"If you have a weak constitution I daresay accompanying me to a graveyard full of rotting corpses isn't the cleverest of ideas."

Molly whipped around to face him. "This was your idea in the first place!" Now sufficiently annoyed, she blew a stray stand of her hair out of her eyes to spear him with a glare. "And I'm not some...some delicate, wilting flower! Yes, this entire place smells and yes, I'm frankly horrified by what I've seen thus far. What I've experienced, too. You were almost _killed_ back there. But…but that doesn't give you the right to make your grand assumptions as to whether I have the stomach to follow through with this and be of use to you as an assistant!"

Sherlock blinked a few times. He looked positively stunned. Molly took his silence to mean that she had finally (hopefully) knocked some sense into him.

"This isn't the first time I've underestimated you," he mused.

"I know," Molly admitted, thinking back to their uncomfortable waltz and how close she had been to tears that night. But she hadn't cried once, had she? And she wasn't going to cry tonight, either, even though she was frightened and anxious and about ten other emotions rolled into one. She also had more faith in herself than to allow Sherlock's mercurial behavior to be the tipping point for all of her emotions to spill over.

"I will try my best to make it my last," he assured.

One glance in his direction told her that he was being entirely serious. Molly felt a reluctant smile tug at the corners of her mouth at the sight. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded and turned to look out his own window. "I cannot promise that I won't doubt you again but the bottom line is that you've already surpassed my preconceived notions regarding your intelligence, tenacity and general good humor." He glanced at her again, his expression appraising this time. "Which is remarkable, really, seeing as I've only known you for a day."

**o0o**

The carriage came to an abrupt stop after nearly half an hour of their enduring the driver's reckless maneuvers. Sherlock jumped out first and Molly clambered after him over the worn leather seats, all too eager to finally be free of what had felt like a four-wheeled deathtrap.

With the driver sufficiently paid and on his way, Sherlock scanned the surrounding area and set off down the uneven, cobblestone street. Molly kept up with him this time by matching her strides with his. It wasn't an easy feat when taking into consideration the length of his legs compared to hers or the puddles of rainwater that seemed to be everywhere she stepped but she managed, somehow.

"To answer your question from earlier, we're headed to Dulwich Burial Ground," he announced as they turned a slight corner.

"I asked you that nearly an hour ago!"

"Irrelevant."

Sensing a losing battle, Molly gave up and listened as Sherlock told her all about the graveyard from its notable occupants down to how many interments it had. She'd never heard of the place before but she was already bracing herself for the inevitable smell of decay and lack of light. After all, there wasn't any need for the caretaker to install lighting when most people would think twice before visiting the place after dark, Sherlock explained. Popping in for a quick visit was strictly speaking illegal as soon as the sun was down.

The more Molly thought about the illegality of the situation, the more unfortunate it seemed. That wasn't to say that any law enforcement would show up, but still…she shuddered to think what her mother would do upon discovering that her only daughter had been arrested for trespassing a graveyard in the middle of the night with none other than Sherlock Holmes for company.

Realistically, it could go one of two ways: Molly would either be forced to retire from London and spend the rest of her life in the countryside with her miserable, slightly demented Aunt Rosalind or Sherlock would feel compelled to ask for her hand in marriage to save her from ruin.

A small, nervous laugh escaped Molly's lips from the absurdity of the former option and the sheer implausibility of the latter.

"Something funny?" Sherlock asked.

"No!" Molly insisted albeit too quickly. Sherlock shot her an assessing look and she gave him a rueful one in return. "I just can't help but wonder…well, what if we're caught?"

"We won't be." As an afterthought, he added, "Unless of course you do something ridiculous like scream bloody murder over the sound of a twig snapping or fall into an empty grave."

Sherlock sounded so sure of himself that Molly couldn't help but scoff. "I can't decide whether to laugh or be offended by that."

He stopped in his tracks and peered down at her. "How is that offensive?"

"Because you're still assuming – oh, never mind!" Molly brushed past him and continued to walk down the street. She could just make out the hazy outline of an ancient wrought iron fence about a block ahead of them.

"Because I'm still assuming…what? That you're more likely to scream or to trip because you're a woman?" he prodded.

"Something like that," Molly grumbled.

"Well, that isn't true."

"Isn't it?"

"No." He caught up and turned around to face her, walking backwards. "The reason why you're more likely to scream is because I can't. I don't have the vocal chords for it."

"Is that right?"

"Ask my housekeeper if you don't believe me, Molly. I haven't been able to since I was a child."

"Why?"

"No idea." He said it in a way that gave Molly the distinct impression that he did have an idea only he wasn't telling her.

Instead of pressing the issue she cleared her throat and guided them back to the previous topic of conversation. "And about my tripping? Surely you're not insinuating that all women are clumsier by nature?"

"Of course not. Though if you don't mind my saying so, you lose considerable control of your balance when under duress. It follows logically that you could trip and fall at some point tonight," he speculated. When Molly didn't immediately reply, he added a smug smile for good measure. It wasn't nearly as grating as it should have been because she just smiled back at him.

"Fair enough. I am clumsy," Molly agreed. They reached the gate to the cemetery and came to a standstill. "But what about you? You can't be graceful and poised one hundred percent of the time. That isn't possible and nor is it fair."

"Agreed." He crouched down to inspect what looked like a heavy duty lock.

"So you're agreeing that it is just as likely for you to trip, lose your balance and fall into a grave as it is for me to do the same?"

"That gate is locked."

Molly frowned. "What does that have anything to do with – oomph!" Sherlock cupped his hand over her mouth, effectively silencing her.

"The gate is locked but what do you observe, Molly?" he questioned, slowly pivoting to stand behind her. He let his hand fall and Molly squinted in the dark, trying to make out what he could possibly see that she hadn't already.

"Observe…what? That we'll have to climb over the fence?" she whispered. Sherlock huffed behind her and his breath tickled the flyaway hairs at the nape of her neck. Molly shivered at the sensation but his hands came to rest on top of her shoulders before she could pull away to reestablish a respectable distance between them.

He turned her slightly to the right and pointed to the ground. "Look. Right there. What do you see?"

Molly leant forward to inspect the muddy area. She couldn't pinpoint anything out of the ordinary at first but then…"Footprints?"

She crept closer and saw that there was indeed a set of footprints in the thin pool of mud overlaying the cobblestone. The size of the tracks indicated that they belonged to a man but she couldn't make much out besides that. "But that means–"

"We won't be alone."

"Oh," Molly said faintly. She felt considerably less enthusiastic about this plan than she had a second ago, not that she had harbored much enthusiasm about it to start with.

Sherlock bent over again to fiddle with the gate's lock. He rattled it for a moment more and then straightened up with a sigh of annoyance. "That settles it, then."

"Settles what?"

"We're going to have to climb over the fence, after all."

**o0o**

Naturally, Sherlock was up and over the blasted thing in less than a minute.

Molly, on the other hand, didn't possess enough upper body strength for the job and wasn't nearly as light on her feet.

"Come on, Molly! We're wasting valuable time!"

"Give me a minute! I'm just a little bit…" She glanced down and gulped. She was stuck halfway over the gate, her right leg on one side and her left leg dangling over the other.

Sherlock's landing hadn't made the jump look so bad but from this angle, the drop down was intimidating. Surely she would break something if she were to leap over it as he had done?

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock jogged back over and held up his arms. "I'll catch you if you fall. Now hurry!"

"This isn't a good idea. Maybe there's another entrance somewhere?"

"Molly," he chastised, standing on tiptoe to tug at her foot. "You can do it. Swing your leg over, slowly."

"I can't–"

"Yes, you can. Once both of them are over on this side I'll help you down. How does that sound?"

Molly took a deep breath and, after checking that her grip was secure, moved her left leg over the uncomfortable picket spikes to join her right, her entire body wobbling as she did so.

Sherlock smiled in encouragement and wiggled his outstretched fingers when she was properly positioned. "There you go. Now all you have to do is jump."

"I'll crush you!" Molly squeaked, adjusting herself.

"Unlikely."

"Sherlock, you don't look strong enough to catch me!" she hissed.

It was too dark to see his reaction but she was almost positive that he rolled his eyes at that excuse. "Molly, you don't look heavy enough to crush me. Now_ jump_."

There was nothing for it but to trust him. They'd already wasted enough time bickering back and forth and their voices had probably carried while doing so.

Closing her eyes, Molly let go of her viselike grip and pushed off of the fence with her heels. Instead of landing at an awkward angle her feet didn't even touch the ground. Sherlock had caught her mid-fall.

"See?" he murmured against her front. Molly cracked open one eye as he backed away from the fence. His arms were folded beneath her rear and he was carrying her as if she didn't weigh a thing.

"This isn't the first time I've underestimated you," she sighed, echoing his previous statement.

"I can assure you that it won't be your last, either." He carefully set her down on the ground but didn't back away.

"Yes. Well." Molly couldn't think of anything else to say. She knew this moment was important. They were starting to understand each other and it felt…nice. It felt nice, knowing that she was on equal footing with him, that they could work together as a team.

Before she could tell him as much, Sherlock whipped around at a dizzying speed and scanned the area behind him, his entire body tense. He sniffed the air for a moment and then grabbed a hold of her hand. "Follow me. Stay close."

Heart hammering away in her chest, Molly clasped her hand in his without question and allowed him to guide her along in the dark. Sherlock picked his way through the graves and tombstones, giving her occasional directions of where to step when needed.

Much to Molly's relief, they stopped after a few minutes and Sherlock kicked at a spot of earth beneath his feet.

"Sherlock?" What is it?" Molly tried and failed to keep her voice from trembling.

"Ash. Burnt pieces of wood. Can't you smell them?" He let go of her hand entirely to dig in his coat pocket.

Molly took a deep inhale through her nose. She'd sat in front of enough fires in her lifetime to recognize the charred, earthy smell of fire embers. Sherlock was right. "So...someone made a fire?"

"And extinguished it just a few minutes ago. Whoever it was must have seen or heard us climb over the fence and decided, quite sensibly, that a fire would attract our attention."

"But did you see anything? Did you see him run away?" Molly managed to ask, praying to God that was the case. If not, the person in question could be anywhere; up a tree, behind a tombstone or even lurking a short distance away, just biding his time and listening to their conversation.

Listening, and deciding whether or not to come charging at them...Molly shivered at the very thought and inched closer to Sherlock.

"Of course not. My sight isn't that good. I could smell the smoke from the gate, though," he explained, gesturing to the fence a ways back with the object he'd extracted from his pocket. Upon closer inspection, Molly realized it was a pistol. Sherlock had a fully loaded _pistol_ in his hand and he was waving it about like it was a child's toy instead of a deadly weapon.

"How do we know he fled, then?" Molly managed to ask in spite of her shock at his suddenly brandishing a gun.

"We don't." Sherlock brushed past her to pick up something near the pile of burnt wood. "Though it's safe to say that if he did bolt, he'll be returning to this spot soon enough."

"What makes you say that?"

Sherlock turned to face her again. In the dark she could just barely discern the object he'd picked up: it was a shovel, one that was just the right size for digging up a sizable portion of dirt to reach a coffin buried underneath.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: One more chapter after this one and then you'll be caught up to the point where I am in the story! I plan to update every other week :)**

* * *

Expect the unexpected. That was the old saying. In Sherlock's experience, the common, featureless crimes proved to be all the more puzzling, so he had learned early on to conduct his work according to the phrase.

Case in point: this entire investigation was shaping up to be far too predictable. After all, what were the chances of being right about the time of night or graveyard? (Granted, he'd kept track of the missing bodies using an map of South London in the hope that he would be able to find a discernible pattern in the location of the cemeteries, but his final decision to start at Dulwich had come down to mostly guess work.)

Then there was the perfectly-timed smoke which had led to the oh-so-conveniently placed shovel. Someone was either too stupid to realize that they were leaving clues left and right or, as Sherlock was beginning to suspect, someone was planting evidence right under his nose.

It was too premature in the investigation to determine whether it was all part of a greater ploy but it was never too soon to exercise reasonable precaution. As Molly's constant presence reminded him, he wasn't working alone anymore. She had entrusted him with her care and the last thing he wanted was for something to happen to her as a result of his inadequate protection or forethought.

"What do we do?" Molly whispered. She sounded thoroughly spooked even though her face was completely veiled in shadow. "Sherlock...it's a shovel. _Someone's shovel_. They were about to..." She chose not to finish her sentence and crept closer to him instead.

Sherlock didn't begrudge her for feeling frightened. Besides, she had managed to wear a brave face for this long. Her change in behavior was just another reason to speed up the investigation, find concrete answers and escort her home before the night turned to morning.

"Up a tree," Sherlock decided, dropping the shovel to glance around the enclosed area with his pistol clutched firmly in his right hand. He couldn't make much out with the blasted fog and lack of artificial light but thankfully the stark silhouettes of various tree trunks stood out amongst the tombstones. He hurried toward the nearest tree that seemed sturdy and tall enough to climb. Molly was quick to follow him, too clever (and perhaps too scared) to question this abrupt change of plan.

**o0o**

If Sherlock had known that the change of plan would result in his being stuck in a tree with Molly while not one but _two_ body snatchers returned to the grave of a recently deceased politician, he would have forgone the investigation all together.

To start, the men had definitely been tipped off to expect company by someone they referred to as 'boss', thus confirming Sherlock's previous suspicion that this crime was at least partly staged to attract attention.

If that wasn't enough cause for concern, both of the criminals were armed and able bodied. They weren't the brightest men for the job at hand but what they lacked in intelligence they made up for in brute strength. Outnumbered and definitely outgunned, this left Sherlock with no choice but to stay on alert and remain hidden in the relative safety of the tree while the pair of thieves removed the dark, damp earth from the top of the fresh grave.

"If this job is botched because you were too stupid to stick around to see whether those two lads made it over the gate, I won't hesitate to blow a hole in your skull the first chance I get," one snatcher warned the other.

"Will yeh drop it? I stamped out the fire, left my shovel and bolted. So what? 'S what I was directed ta do, alright?"

The first snatcher muttered a curse and drove his shovel into the ground with more force than was strictly necessary. "You were told to keep a lookout and come to me if and only if the man showed up _alone_. By himself."

"It weren't Holmes, I can tell yeh that much. Besides, both of them was too young–"

"Have you ever heard of a thing called a disguise, idiot?"

"'Course I have!"

"Then you can't say for certain whether or not it was Holmes," the first snatcher snarled. "Besides, Boss has put a lot of thought into this. Remember what he said? 'It'll take a genius to figure out that Dulwich is the next logical step on the list of ransacked graveyards.' What are the chances than anyone but a proper genius like Holmes would show up tonight? Slim to none, I'll tell you that."

Sherlock grabbed hold of a nearby branch for balance as he was struck by the sudden realization that the two men were talking about _him_. They had been tipped off to expect him, specifically; not to expect the police or a rival gang of body snatchers.

This in itself was a chilling thought and it grew all the more unsettling given that only a handful of people were aware of his secret profession, among them being his very good friend and former assistant John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, his brother (not by choice, unfortunately) and Molly. Sherlock picked his confidants wisely so it was unlikely that anyone from the aforementioned list had blabbed. The Bow Street Runners were notoriously secretive, as well. Besides, the only man from Bow Street who knew of his real identity was Gregory Lestrade and the inspector was as tight-lipped and loyal as they came.

That being said, Sherlock could formulate only one logical assumption from the evidence at hand: he had unintentionally and (up until this point) unknowingly gained a strange sort of follower; someone who knew that he was a detective. Someone who just so happened to be the person behind these illegal exhumations; someone clever and powerful enough to make a couple of lackeys to do all the dirty work so the crimes couldn't be easily traced. Someone bold enough leave a trail in the hope that Sherlock would investigate…and fall right into a trap in the process.

The only thing that _had_ stopped Sherlock from falling into any sort of trap was his newfound obligation to keep his assistant as safe as possible. His idea to climb the tree had been entirely for Molly's benefit and not his own. If she hadn't agreed to accompany him tonight in the first place, Sherlock would have been as good as dead by this point in time.

As if sensing his disquiet herself, Molly patted his arm. Sherlock turned to face her in the darkness, trying his best to prevent the tree branch from creaking as he readjusted his weight.

Molly nodded her head in the direction of the body snatchers. The two men continued to dig some distance away, both of them entirely unaware that the man they'd hoped to capture was lodged in the nearest tree. "Okay?" she whispered.

Sherlock hadn't anticipated such a question out of her so he didn't know how to respond. What could he possibly say? Any answer he gave would only serve to upset her, as well.

"Sherlock?"

He brusquely shook his head in response, not as an answer to her question but as a signal for her to keep quiet. Upon realizing that no answer was forthcoming, Molly opted for lacing her fingers through his. She gave his hand a small, reassuring squeeze and then returned to resting her head against the tree trunk.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock squeezed back, hoping that Molly would understand the unspoken 'thank you'.

Their hands remained entwined for quite some time after that. Truth be told, Sherlock wasn't comfortable with letting go of the smaller, softer hand in his until he could say with absolute certainty that the body snatchers had pried open the lid of the coffin, stuffed the corpse into a cloth sack and made a hasty retreat to the cemetery gate.

**o0o**

Having ensured that the coast was clear, Sherlock made quick work of climbing down from the tree, Molly following close behind him as he went.

Once they were safely on the ground they raced toward the gate. It wasn't until they were both halfway over the damn thing that Sherlock even thought to rest for a minute to give Molly a chance to catch her breath.

"S-so we're going after them now?" Molly panted.

"Are you sure you're up for it?"

Molly took some time to respond as she lost her footing only to find it again but she eventually grunted her approval. "I've stuck with you this long, haven't I?"

"And you've done brilliantly," he answered, biting back a proud smile. With that, Sherlock turned himself around at the top of the gate and began to climb down the other side.

"Sherlock?"

"Enough chatter, Molly. We're losing them!"

"I'm aware of that, Sherlock, but–"

"But what?" he snapped, letting go of the railing. He landed on both feet but the sole of his right boot slid through a patch of mud. The clumsy landing made him lose his balance entirely and fall to the ground. He halfway expected Molly to comment on his less than grateful descent so when she didn't, Sherlock glanced up to check on her progress.

Molly wasn't moving. In fact, she was frozen in place, but it wasn't because she was stuck; she was staring at something over Sherlock's shoulder.

One glance in the same direction was all it took to singlehandedly ruin Sherlock's night.

A familiar carriage was stationed under a streetlamp just a block away from the cemetery. The carriage's expensive black lacquer paint job and the footman's dark blue livery gave away the occupant's identity before the great lump himself could manage to climb out of the vehicle.

**o0o**

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock seethed.

"Language, brother. There is a lady present." Mycroft bowed his head to acknowledge Molly's presence. Molly didn't budge from her position behind Sherlock; he presumed she felt unsure of her place in all of this.

"Why. Are. You. Here?" Sherlock tried again.

Mycroft took his time in responding by consulting his pocket watch, letting out an audible sigh and then glancing up and down the street. Twice. Sherlock's fingers itched with the urge to strangle.

"It's late," Mycroft drawled at last.

"What is your point?"

"I've just told you. There is a lady present and it is imperative that she return to her place of residence before she is missed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that and glanced behind him. Molly looked absolutely mortified and on the verge of tears at being found out. He spun back around and speared Mycroft with a glare. "I fail to see why Molly is any concern of yours."

"I will not allow you to put her in further jeopardy. You have two choices: you will either leave her in my care or I will visit her mother first thing to inform her of the situation." Mycroft's lips curled into a forced smile. "The decision is yours. Or, rather, Miss Hooper's."

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell his brother in no uncertain terms to piss off but Molly surprised him by stepping forward to face Mycroft herself. "There's no need to involve my mother in any of this, sir. I'll go with you."

Mycroft seemed just as taken aback if his blank look was anything to go by. Nevertheless, after a few beats of uncomfortable silence, he brushed aside his surprise and gestured to the carriage with a wave of his cane. "I'll be waiting."

Molly's shoulders slumped in defeat as soon as Mycroft was out of earshot. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, reaching for Sherlock's hand again. He allowed her to take it, finding the gesture as comforting as it had been whilst hiding away in the tree. "I hope you understand. Arguing with your brother will only waste your time."

"I do understand," Sherlock managed. It wouldn't do any good to assure her that he wasn't disappointed (he was). Besides, Molly was right. Putting up a fight to keep her here would put more distance between him and the body snatchers. And as much as he didn't want her to leave just yet, she had to. Mycroft was a man of his word; if Molly decided to stay, he would surely go through with his plan to pay a visit to her mother.

Sherlock sighed in acceptance and adjusted Molly's crooked cap atop her head to better meet her gaze. "Thank you. You've been…helpful."

Molly frowned and shook her head. "I don't know about that. I've been more of a tagalong than anything else." She squeezed his hand one last time and let go. "Please be careful?"

"I will," he assured.

It was an empty promise, devoid of any truth, but Molly's small smile made up for the unsettling guilt Sherlock felt at lying through his teeth.

**o0o**

"What is your connection to my brother?"

The question startled Molly and pulled her away from Sherlock's safety, a subject that had plagued her thoughts ever since she'd been forced to leave him behind. "M-my connection? I barely know him." She squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable with the way she was being intensely observed from the space opposite.

"And yet you elected to spend the majority of your evening in his company...helping him with his latest investigation, no doubt?"

Molly blanched, unsure of what to say. The elder Holmes continued, "Oh, come now. You needn't be withholding. I make it my business to know everything about my younger brother so it should come as no surprise that I'm aware of his…shall we say, side career?"

"How did you find us tonight?" Molly hedged.

"I have eyes and ears all over this city, Miss Hooper," he answered cryptically, giving her a reptilian smile that didn't reach his eyes. The family resemblance was remarkable when he stretched his face into such an unconvincing display of normalcy, so much so that Molly felt just as unnerved to be in this man's company as she had in Sherlock's before tonight. Because tonight, her opinion of Sherlock had taken an unexpected but welcome turn for the better.

"Does that mean that you have someone keeping a close watch on Sherlock – erm, your brother – for the rest of the night? Will he be safe?" Molly asked.

"Rest assured that he will be fine. Even if I didn't have numerous employees watching his every move, my brother is more than capable of fending for himself and working alone. He just prefers the company." The older man consulted his pocket watch for the umpteenth time and frowned. There was something about this mannerism that gave away his utter exhaustion. Was this how he spent every night? Trailing after his little brother to keep him out of trouble?

It was hardly a polite thing to ask and yet Mr. Holmes was back to staring at her in lieu of his pocket watch, his eyebrows raised in expectation for her to respond in some way. Molly twisted her hands in her lap and then ventured, "How odd. He doesn't seem the sort to prefer the company of others."

"There are a few notable exceptions that Sherlock has deemed worthy of his time."

"I see." Molly let that sink in, curious as to why Sherlock had come to her for help instead of someone else. She did know a thing or two about Galvanism, true, but that was hardly a good enough reason for Sherlock to have sought her out if he had other connections available. "So I'm not the first assistant?"

Mr. Holmes gave her a cool, calculative stare. "No."

"Oh." Though she knew it was silly, Molly couldn't stop the jealousy from taking form as she wondered what his last partner had been like. From what she had pieced together so far, Sherlock cared little for social standing, so the previous assistant could have been anyone; his valet, an orphan who lived on the street, a Covent Garden actor…even a woman.

Somehow, that last possibility bothered her to a greater extent than all of the others combined. Luckily Mr. Holmes disrupted this disconcerting train of thought by clearing his throat. "Though you are, in some ways, better suited for the job."

Molly's heart fluttered in her chest at that. "How so?"

He tapped his cane against the side of his leg as he considered the question. "To start, you're not a thrill seeker. You don't appear to have a compulsion to involve yourself in dangerous situations. You're level headed. You may not be able to offer my brother protection but you're reasonable. That's as useful a trait to have as any."

"How do you know all of this already? We've only just met," Molly pointed out, more than a bit skeptical. This was Sherlock's brother, yes, but surely she wasn't transparent to the point where any old stranger could figure her out in a matter of minutes?

Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It's as I said before: I make it my business to know everything about my brother. 'Everything' includes you, Miss Hooper."

A fresh wave of paranoia washed over Molly but she tried to keep her expression neutral in spite of it. "So you've been watching me?"

Mr. Holmes ignored her question as he went on to say, "Sherlock hates to dance. He abhors keeping up appearances by paying social visits…and yet he has subjected himself to both activities in the short time he's known you."

At last, the missing pieces of this confusing conversation were falling into place, namely that Mr. Holmes was concerned for his brother's welfare. It was nothing short of absurd, really. Did this man honestly believe for a second that Sherlock was truly courting her?

"He's not interested in me. He's…he's not! He needs my help and the only way to do that is to feign a courtship." Molly swallowed and wiped her sweaty hands on the front of her trousers.

"How do you know it's feigned?"

Molly forced herself to meet the gentleman's gaze. "Forgive me for being so blunt, sir, but it's blindingly obvious. I'm not rich, pretty, endearing and nor am I interesting. If you know so much about me surely you didn't need me to tell you all of that?"

"Has Sherlock told you that he isn't interested?"

"He hasn't said those words, precisely, but–"

"Then you have no grounds to assume that my brother is merely courting you in exchange for help, no matter what he says to the contrary, Miss Hooper," Mr. Holmes interrupted, rapping on the ceiling of the coach three times to signal the driver to stop.

A glance out the window confirmed that they were already in Berkeley Square. Sensing that this conversation was nearing an end, Molly hastened to add, "But his other assistant–"

"Dear me, did you think it was another woman?" Mr. Holmes tipped back his head and gave a hearty chuckle. "No, no. His previous assistant was an army doctor. A medical man. Doctor Watson is currently travelling the continent with his charming new wife but if you were to ask the chap himself, he wouldn't hesitate to call Sherlock his best friend."

"Does Sherlock feel the same?"

"He most certainly does...which is why I find his sudden interest in you, Miss Hooper, most intriguing."

"I'm not quite sure I follow, sir?"

"Let's put it this way: I didn't think Doctor Watson would last a day in Sherlock's company when I first met the man and yet they're now as thick as thieves. He got through to Sherlock, somehow." Mr. Holmes leant in close and gave Molly another smile. His expression was softer this time, more genuine. "Who knows what you'll come to mean to Sherlock if you get through to him, as well?"


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Last chapter for awhile but at least it's a long one! I know I'm just repeating myself at this point but THANK YOU for the amazing reviews, favorites and follows!**

**If you'd like to stay up to date with the story's progress I post about it from time to time on my tumblr. My username is sallyeloise. **

**Alright, enough of my blabbing. Enjoy Chapter 8! **

* * *

Molly didn't hear from Sherlock for days. Not a single word, a letter, or even a sign. Nothing.

At first she had reasoned with herself that he was a busy man who kept to himself. He was by no means obligated to assure her that he had managed to safely return home to…wherever it was he lived. (It was rumored that he owned a modest set of rooms in a working class neighborhood in lieu of his family's stately Grosvenor Square townhouse...though townhouse was a bit of an understatement. It was more of a mansion, really.)

However, after accepting several invitations to soirées, balls and musicales and not once catching a glimpse of Sherlock's peculiar features amidst the familiar faces of the _ton_, Molly's worry began anew. What if something was awry? What if he'd been hurt in an altercation with the body snatchers? Or worse, captured? Beaten or tortured for information?

There wasn't any way to know for certain and she had never felt so useless because of it.

**o0o**

_3 days later _

It was a beautiful midmorning and a perfect day for a leisurely stroll through Hyde Park but the agreeable weather was completely wasted on Molly. After yet another sleepless night, she couldn't find the strength to do something as simple as listen attentively to her walking partner. She was too lost in her own thoughts for that.

Fortunately, Mr. Richard Brook didn't seem to mind the silence. He chattered away to his heart's content and it wasn't until they'd reached the end of Rotten Row that he mentioned anything about it.

"Is something troubling you, Miss Hooper?" he asked in that soft, dulcet voice of his.

Still slightly dazed, Molly peered up at him. He was an exceedingly sweet man as his gentle smile attested. He knew she was distracted by something and more importantly, he recognized the value in asking what the matter was. Regardless of how little she still knew about him, his sensitivity was a commendable trait and she greatly admired him for it.

Not that their newly formed acquaintanceship mattered in the grand scheme of things. Mr. Brook had been nothing short of doting since the day he first called on her, coincidentally the same day that Sherlock paid her a visit.

But where Sherlock was seemingly charming one minute and distant the next, Mr. Richard Brook was an open book. Even better, he was truly interested in Molly's pursuits and made no effort to hide it. He talked with her of anatomy, medicine, physics...everything subject that she had always longed to discuss with another intellectual, she felt she could freely discuss with Mr. Brook. And she absolutely loved it.

A few nights ago at Almack's, Mr. Brook had even listened to Molly when she expressed her concern about Sherlock's unknown whereabouts. Of course, she hadn't delved into specifics. Nothing that would have given away her peculiar partnership with Sherlock or information pertaining to the case, at any rate.

Ever the gracious gentleman, Mr. Brook had then gone out of his way to assure her that Sherlock would be fine. He had waited on her hand and foot all evening, offering to fetch her refreshments and asking her to dance with him more often than was strictly proper. What's more, during the quadrille, he'd invited her to take a walk with him through Hyde Park later in the week. Molly had gladly accepted his offer at the time, thoroughly convinced that the outing would serve to distract her from everything else clouding her mind.

Truth be told, she wouldn't have been so quick to accept the offer if she had known that the ensuing outing would be so taxing and the conversation so one-sided. It was humiliating, really, how she could do nothing but blink up at Mr. Brook in confusion, too embarrassed to inquire as to what he'd been talking about not a minute before.

"Oh dear. Was my critique of The Marriage of Figaro too convoluted?" Mr. Brook slowed his pace at Molly's continued silence, his face a picture of concern.

Molly flushed from head to toe and hastened to apologize. "Forgive me, Mr. Brook. I was woolgathering. I would be delighted to hear your account from the beginning if you're feeling up to repeating yourself?"

"You're far too polite, Miss Hooper. If I'm boring you it's quite all right. You can just say so next time. I won't mind, honest!" Before she was able to protest, Brook let go of her arm and went to sit at a nearby park bench. Molly joined him, still slightly ashamed of herself. Together they surveyed the passerby in companionable silence.

Everyone was taking advantage of the weather: the dapper bachelors in their expensive riding coats, the picturesque debutantes with their parasols and fashionable bonnets on display; small children and their disgruntled nannies, even a few elderly members of the _ton_. If she weren't so miserable and tired, Molly would have enjoyed the sights and sounds herself.

Mr. Brook, who clearly hadn't registered the extent this fatigue (much to Molly's chagrin), turned to address her again. "I'd love to have a picnic in this kind of weather!"

Molly nodded distractedly as she watched a rider on horseback expertly navigate his brown gelding through the crowd. She shaded her eyes to get a better look at his features but stopped herself as soon as she realized what she was doing. _It's not Him. Stop thinking every single man you spot is Him!_

Accepting that the niggling voice was probably right (it was right about most things though she loathed admitting it), Molly forced herself to refocus her efforts on Mr. Brook. He was the one who deserved what little attention she had left, after all.

"A picnic?" Molly echoed.

"Mhm," Mr. Brook agreed, closing his eyes and tilting his face up toward the sun.

To Molly's surprise, she found him quite attractive like this; relaxed, not as ungainly, his dark hair combed forward and his darker eyes hidden beneath fluttering lids. He didn't possess the Byronic airs that most men aspired to and neither was he devastatingly handsome by society's standards but Molly wasn't concerned about that. She was hardly a conventional beauty herself. Besides, looks didn't really matter. What truly mattered was that Mr. Brook was able to see the good in her. For this reason alone, Molly was determined to live up to his expectations.

"Have you ever had a picnic here?" she prompted.

Mr. Brook stirred from his sunbathing and smiled shyly. "Never in Hyde Park, no. If the weather keeps up perhaps we could arrange one."

Molly averted her gaze, smiling a bit. "Perhaps."

He smiled jovially back at her for a moment and then straightened in his seat, his interest piqued by something (or _someone_) up ahead.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

"My God, what a beautiful beast! A thoroughbred of that size probably cost a fortune. Although, my equine knowledge is limited at best. What do you think?"

Molly squinted up the path. "Where?"

Mr. Brook pointed. "The brown one over there with the white socks."

Molly looked and saw that it was the same gelding as before. The rider was near enough for Molly to make out that he was pale and fashionably thin in figure. Her heart sped up at the very sight.

"I'm not a spendthrift, Miss Hooper, but there are some horses that I would bid all of my money on in an auction and a gelding with that kind of pedigree is one of them," Brook carried on, oblivious to Molly's situation.

The horse slowed from a trot to a walk and Molly lost her breath altogether as she recognized the man astride the saddle. Sherlock. Upon spotting her, he urged the animal closer and smiled winningly. "I see you've been very busy during our time apart, Miss Hooper!" he called.

**o0o**

Sherlock held the reins of his mount in one gloved hand and a riding crop in the other. He was dressed in a green riding coat and a pair of buckskin breeches, both of which clung to his figure like a second skin. They left little of his muscular physique to the imagination. A tall top hat completed the ensemble and covered most of his curly hair.

He was truly a sight to behold in the light of day and Molly wasn't the only one who thought so; several pairs of eyes were trained on him as he dismounted and approached her. The horse obediently followed his lead, its ears pinned forward in interest. Molly rose from her seat and Mr. Brook did same.

"I haven't been as busy as you've probably envisioned, Mr. Holmes," she managed, curtsying.

Sherlock laughed at that and dug in his pocket. He pulled out an apple (of all things!) and fed it to the gelding.

"You have a lovely horse. He's very...pretty," Molly ventured, unsure and uncomfortable. The dynamic between them was most decidedly awkward with the addition of Mr. Brook.

Sherlock patted the horse's muzzle and then gave Molly his full attention. At first he appraised her, his eyes flicking from her sensible bonnet down to her new dress and then back up again. She refused to cower or fidget even though she took notice of how Mr. Brook was shifting from foot to foot beside her.

Sherlock cocked a brow, obviously noticing the same thing.

"Mr. Brook, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Mr. Richard Brook," Molly introduced, at a loss of what else to say. Mr. Brook smiled nervously in greeting; Sherlock made no attempt to offer a smile in return.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes! Miss Hooper has told me all about you," Mr. Brook exclaimed, his words too forcibly polite for Molly's liking.

They were too polite for Sherlock's liking, as well. His narrowed eyes gave away his contempt. "Has she indeed?" His lips spread into a wry smile as he turned to address her instead. "All good things, I hope?"

Molly felt herself flush. Ever since the night at the graveyard she'd been operating under the assumption that she'd grown immune to his forced charm. And yet after just one week apart (albeit a tortuously long one), a solitary smile was enough to put a stop to that line of thought.

"Oh, yes! All good things! From what I've heard you are quite the Renaissance man," Mr. Brook answered for her. Molly inwardly winced at his toadying. "Though, she has expressed some concern about your absence from several social events this past week. You were ill, I take it? No matter. I hope you're feeling yourself again, Mr. Holmes?"

Something in Sherlock's veneer of polite indifference for Mr. Brook cracked but he managed a swift recovery by acknowledging the question with a bow of his head. "I'm feeling quite well. A nasty head cold left me bedridden for a few days, nothing more." Sherlock returned his attention to Molly and she felt her cheeks turn an even brighter shade of crimson. "Thank you for your concern."

"O-of course!" she spluttered, not finding it in her power to deny Brook's words though they had been a bit exaggerated. She'd only expressed her concern for Sherlock's well-being once. Or twice. "I would have called on you to inquire about your condition, but–"

Sherlock cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It would have been a waste of your time, Miss Hooper. After all, you have a busy schedule. Balls to attend, outings to take, suitors to charm." He gave Mr. Brook a fleeting glance and added, "I wouldn't have wanted to take you away from all that…excitement."

Molly was tempted to tell him that he _should_ have; that he should have wanted her to call on him; that he should have alerted her to what had happened to him (she wasn't buying the head cold excuse for a second). Because in all honesty, she didn't give a fig about the attention she'd received in the past week. Everything and everyone seemed so inconsequential in comparison to Sherlock, even Mr. Brook. She realized that now.

Mr. Brook seemed to realize the same thing.

"This week _was_ exciting, wasn't it?" he cut in, pulling lightly on Molly's arm.

Ever the keen observer, Sherlock immediately picked up on the not-so-subtle cue intended to end the conversation. He tipped his hat in parting and grabbed the reins of his ride. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brook."

"Likewise, Mr. Holmes," Brook bit off, his courteous tone now entirely unconvincing.

"And Miss Hooper," Sherlock continued, his eyes locking with hers. His gaze was cold and distant, a far cry from the warmth she wanted to see. "Always nice to see you."

"The same to you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock gave no bow in response to her farewell. He simply mounted his gelding and clicked his tongue to spur the animal into motion. Molly watched him fade into the crowded avenue of horses and barouches, feeling distinctly ruffled and guilty though she had no reason to be.

"Well," Mr. Brook mumbled. "He's very different from the way you described him. Less charming. Not at all a conversationalist. Rather dismissive, if you ask me!"

Molly felt half inclined to defend Sherlock and place the blame on Mr. Brook. After all, he had been the one to tactlessly draw the conversation to a close. Not Sherlock. Instead, she hid her displeasure and dismay behind flighty laugh. "He's fickle that way, I suppose."

**o0o**

"Well. You look like hell," John mused, taking a seat on the sofa.

Sherlock chose not to comment and continued to rifle through his extensive book collection.

Mrs. Hudson proceeded to fuss over John by serving him tea and a generous helping of biscuits. She finally beat a hasty retreat from the room when Sherlock picked up his pistol from his desk and twirled it about.

The weapon was forcefully pried from his grasp a few seconds later. Sherlock was immediately reminded of one thing he hadn't missed about John's absence: the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted with an assortment of weapons both legal and illegal.

"I needed her to stop clucking over you like a mother hen. Besides, I wasn't going to use it!" Sherlock crossed his arms and scowled.

John didn't pay him any mind as he reclaimed his spot on the sofa. "Let's not take any chances." He checked to see if the firearm was loaded and carefully stowed the gun somewhere in his jacket before looking up at Sherlock with a weary smile. "Good to see you again."

"You've just returned?"

"Not an hour ago. I left Mary in the care of Mrs. Turner and came straight here. She's feeling a bit poorly." John glanced about the room, taking in the numerous darts lodged into the walls. At least there weren't any bullet holes this time. "Nothing has changed in my absence, I see."

As was always the case, John could see but did not correctly observe. And for once, Sherlock didn't feel the need to rub that particular gibe in his friend's face. The less John knew about...things, the better.

"You were only gone for three months," Sherlock muttered.

"Three months is a long time even though I enjoyed every second of it."

"Clearly. You're as brown as a nut. Tell me, did you manage to get enough sun on your extended holiday?" Sherlock sneered. He took up his usual seat in his armchair and wrapped his dressing gown around his knees.

"Enough poking fun," John evaded, stuffing a biscuit into his mouth. "What's wrong? Or is this just your odd way of showing me that you missed my company?"

Sherlock untangled his limbs and swung his legs over the side of the chair. "Don't be absurd." At John's knowing grin he conceded, "Maybe. Just a bit."

John let out a hearty chuckle in response. "Coming from you that is a definitive yes." He was right, of course. Sherlock grumbled unhappily in defeat and John helped himself to another biscuit. "And I'm very glad to hear it. I missed you too, idiot."

Sherlock snorted. "You've grown soft in your time abroad."

"You bloody idiot," John amended although his tone remained nauseatingly affectionate.

It would have to do. "Better."

"Lunatic." John tested the temperature of his tea and sat back in his seat. "Now tell me what's wrong. No cases?"

Sherlock held up his forefinger. "There's a case. Singular."

"You're not making any headway, then?"

"I've made _some_," Sherlock corrected, too annoyed to care that his voice was bordering on petulant. "Though I nearly got shot at in the process. You weren't around to clean up the scrape so I doused it in alcohol. The bleeding stopped eventually." He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the still tender skin underneath his clothing.

John choked on his biscuit. Sherlock hid his perverse satisfaction behind a yawn. After a restorative sip of tea to clear his airway John rasped, "Christ. What happened? What is the case about?"

Fleetingly, the thought occurred to confess that someone (still unidentified despite copious inquiries, damn it) knew about him but Sherlock stopped himself short of telling John anything that would give him cause to worry. The man had enough on his mind already. The added weight around his midsection and the way he was scarfing down biscuits were indicative that one, Mary was expecting (nearly two months along and a rough start if the bags under John's eyes were anything to go by) and two, John's personal finances were strained after an undoubtedly expensive tour of Europe.

_Another time, then_, Sherlock reasoned_, and only if the risk escalates_. John needed to return to his medical practice for the money. Sherlock wasn't so selfish as to take him away from that for the sake of a case. Besides, he had another assistant now. Or perhaps he'd ruined that. (Too soon to tell.) (Too distracting a subject to dwell on right now.) (She'd looked surprisingly lovely in that dress. Pale pink was a flattering color.) (It was new. Mrs. Hooper had finally caved in and purchased an age appropriate wardrobe for Molly.) (Richard Brook hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her.) (_Focus_.)

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. John waited patiently, tapping his left foot against the floorboard. (New boots.) (French made by the look of them.) (Had John bought them in Paris?) (_Focus!_)

"Well?"

"Body snatchers. That in itself isn't extraordinary. I'm investigating the circumstances surrounding the missing bodies."

"What do you mean by 'circumstances'? Body snatchers sell corpses to the highest bidder, yes?"

"Most of the time. This is different."

"They're not being sold?" John leant forward in his seat, intrigue written all over his face. (A typical reaction.) (He'd never been able to resist the allure of an interesting and unsolved crime.)

"Not to medical institutions."

John took a third biscuit off the plate as he let that sink in. "I see."

Sherlock steepled his fingers together under his chin and cast him a dubious sideward glance. "Do you?"

John furrowed his brow in concentration but gave up after a few seconds, huffing out a sigh. "No, I don't. Explain."

"Someone is experimenting on them." At John's look of disgust Sherlock clarified, "No, no. Not like that. Someone is performing medical experiments on the corpses. Not for profit, either."

"How many bodies have gone missing?"

"Close to twenty now. What's more, they aren't disposed of. Well, they aren't disposed of using the predictable methods of disposal, I should say. No bodies have washed up on shore. No complaints about foul smelling smoke on either side of the Thames in the past few weeks so incineration doesn't fit the bill, either."

"What do you think is going on, then?"

"Not enough evidence. I'm working on it."

John frowned. "So why on earth are you cross? You have an interesting case on your hands!"

Oh, for God's sake! Of all the things to ask, why was John so fixated on his mood and the cause if it? He was being tedious. This was all so tedious. The chance encounter at Hyde Park had been tedious. (No.) (Stop.) (Mustn't think about that.) (Off topic.) (Uncomfortable.)

"It's nothing." It was a lie and a poorly executed one at that. Sherlock didn't care. He heaved a sigh of annoyance and twisted into a more comfortable position. His newly healed shoulder protested at the sudden movement.

John tapped his finger against his mouth, oblivious (or indifferent) to Sherlock's continued agitation. "_Something_must have happened. Has your brother stopped by recently?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Unfortunately."

"But his visit doesn't explain why you've resorted to frightening your housekeeper away with a pistol or why you're in your dressing gown at tea time, though. Does it?"

Sherlock considered lying again but abandoned that idea as soon as he caught sight of John's disapproving look. "No."

"Didn't think so." John cleared his throat, searching for the right words to say. "See here...I know you're not the best with…" He gestured about with his hand, "Feelings? Emotions?"

"John–"

"But you can tell me if something is the matter. I may not be able to help you but…moral support and all of that. I have a knack for it, apparently."

"Fine." Sherlock deliberated for a moment, trying to put everything he was feeling into words. He eventually settled for a comparison John would understand. "When you met Mary for the first time…did you instantly take a liking to her?"

"You of all people should know the answer to that. Had it not been for you, Mary and I wouldn't have crossed paths." John paused, searching Sherlock's face for an answer. He found one right away and his face split into a grin. "Sherlock? Is there someone…?"

"No."

(End of discussion.) (Caring is not an advantage.) (She'd seemed at ease and happy in Brook's company.) (Why couldn't he feel happy for her?)

"Sherlock?"

(How to explain the situation to John?) (How to explain a week's worth of no contact to Molly?) (How to approach her in a semi-private setting in order to apologize for said lack of contact?) (How to apologize?)

"Sherlock, for God's sake! I know you can hear me."

(For all the associated benefits, having a best friend is sometimes a damnable business.) (Especially if the friend in question is a nosy, overprotective army doctor.) (But he _had_ to tell John. Only option at this point.)

Sherlock took a big breath and began. "There is someone but I barely know her, John, and she's my new assistant. Correction: new assistant and friend. I think she's my friend. I helped her over a fence, she held my hand. How does one transition from a mere acquaintance to a friend, John?"

"Slow down, what–"

"Furthermore, how does one distinguish feelings of friendship from feelings of affection, reverence? Or do they coincide, coexist?"

"Sherlock, you–"

"She's not my type. I don't have a type. Women, ladies, mistresses, wives, the lot of them. Not my area. They never have been. Except–"

"Stop!" John shouted.

Startled, Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and waited.

And waited.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. After what seemed like ages, he finally spoke up. Sherlock stiffened in his seat, preparing himself for the inevitable 'heart to heart'.

"It seems – now don't correct me if I'm wrong just yet. You'll have your chance. All right?" Sherlock muttered his reluctant assent and John started again. "Now...it seems to me that you hold a certain young lady in high esteem. Is that about right?"

"She's twenty-one. She isn't that young."

"You're twenty-nine. Neither are you. Let me finish." John held up a finger, daring Sherlock to interrupt. It took a considerable amount of willpower not to do so.

"You've known her for how long?"

Sherlock mentally counted the days. "Just over a week."

"Just over a–?" John dissolved into laughter.

A small pang of hurt settled in Sherlock's stomach by result. "I fail to see what is so amusing."

Upon realizing his mistake John stopped laughing and pulled on his cravat, having the decency to look guilty. "Sorry. It's just...Good God, Sherlock! A week? Who is she?"

"I already told you. She's my assistant. Possible friend."

"You've taken her with you? On cases?"

"Once. We hid in a tree while a pair of body snatchers dug up a grave."

John blinked several times, obviously at a loss of what to say about that. "This is so..."

Sherlock groaned, raking a hand down his face. "I know. It's preposterous. Foolish. And I haven't told you the worst part."

"I was going to say 'amazing' but go on, please. Enlighten me."

'Amazing' wasn't a word that Sherlock had expected to hear. "How is it amazing?"

"What's the worst part?" John countered, blatantly ignoring him.

No matter. Sherlock would hound him for an answer when he had ample time to do so. For now, he was faced with the tricky task of explaining how he'd come to care for a person he had not originally intended to develop any complicated feelings for.

"I struck a deal with her. She agreed to help me with the case in exchange for my offer of a feigned courtship. Except, I can't feign it. Not anymore." Sherlock sucked in a breath and went on, "The plan has now backfired. Because of my initial interest she has suitors, John. Plural. More than one. Six, possibly more."

John nodded, digesting this. "Do you love her?"

Sherlock gawked at him. "What? Don't be stupid, John. It's impossible to fall in love with someone over the course of a single week."

"I fell in love with Mary in a matter of days," John pointed out.

"Your romance was an exception."

"Up for debate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but he grudgingly continued, "I'm...fond of her, I suppose. Very fond of her. She's intelligent, caring, and attractive in an understated sort of way that most people tend to overlook..."

"You have such a way with words," John deadpanned.

"_Shut up_." Sherlock rubbed his eyes and speared him with a glare. "This is serious."

"Oh, there's no debating that."

All at once, Sherlock found himself in the rare position of asking John for advice instead of the other way around. Before doing so he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He didn't want to see the smug look John would surely sport as soon as he posed the question. "What do I do?"

"If you have feelings for this woman, and I think it's very obvious that you do if your tantrum is indicative –"

Sherlock opened his eyes at that and cast John a withering look. "This isn't a tantrum."

John scoffed. "You're behaving like a little boy who's just had his toy stolen away by another child."

"Cease with the analogies, John. She is not a toy."

"No, she's not, but you can't deny she means something to you. You've only known her for a week and yet the possibility of another suitor vying for her affection has thrown you into a jealous rage."

Rage wasn't the word for it. Sherlock felt annoyed, incompetent and yes, jealous, but he was more...disappointed than anything else. Mostly at himself and his gross ineptitude where the fairer sex was concerned.

_Where Molly was concerned_, he amended.

"Are you all right?" John asked when Sherlock didn't immediately respond.

"Just...help me. This is beyond my area of expertise."

John sighed. "Would you like my honest opinion?"

"Obviously."

John worried at his bottom lip for a bit, lost in thought. Eventually he offered, "I think you should seek her out. Court her but _really_ court her, Sherlock. No empty flirtations or flattery."

"Fine." It wouldn't be easy seeing as he had no real experience to rely on and Molly would probably take his honest attempt as a joke.

"And for God's sake marry the poor girl! You'll never forgive yourself if you don't," John added.

Sherlock curled his lip in displeasure. "Marriage isn't an option. Not for me."

"Marriage is the _only_ option if she means this much to you after so little time. Trust me." John smiled softly but his eyes gave away his steely determination. "Make her yours before someone else whisks her away or you're bound to spend the rest of your life as a lonely man who is so steeped in regret that you'll eventually become a bitter man, as well."

Though Sherlock didn't say as much right then, later on that night when he was alone with his thoughts and smoking his third tobacco pipe, all the while wondering what Molly was doing, what she was feeling and how she was faring, he finally accepted the fact that John was probably (almost certainly) (exactly) right.

* * *

Notes:

1) Rotten Row: A walking path/bridleway in Hyde Park. Back then it was THE place to be seen and show off your bitchin' clothes, carriage, horse, etc.

2) Almack's: A social club and yet another place to be seen (are you sensing a theme here?). Complementary stale bread and dry cake for all clubbers!

3) Quadrille: A complicated dance with five parts and a precursor to today's square dancing.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: This is a short chapter but I'm planning to update again sometime later in the week. As always, I'm ever so grateful for this story's readership. You guys are seriously the best. Thanks again xx**

* * *

Lady Adler's costume party was, in a word, extravagant. Everything was excessive from the free flowing champagne and dancing to the reckless gambling taking place in the side rooms. The crowd was another beast altogether. Everywhere Sherlock turned some drunken fool could be seen puffing himself up like a cockerel (eager to engage him in conversation, no doubt) or, as was the case with the fairer sex, batting her eyelashes at him from behind a Chinese silk fan.

Unfortunately for them, Sherlock wasn't in the mood to don his false persona and humor their petty attempts at flirtation or flattery. At such a large function as a ball, simply making an appearance was enough to keep the _ton _satisfied. However, taking on the passive role of a spectator proved to be far more tedious than Sherlock expected it to be. Not only was he bored within the first half hour of the festivities but he also had a headache on account of the noise and the tightly packed bodies. He suspected that Sebastian Moran asking Molly for a dance was a contributing factor, as well.

Another painful throb erupted in Sherlock's temples as he glanced in her direction. Yes, her waltzing away with that big brute most _definitely_ had something to do with the pounding in his head. No matter. Sherlock steeled his breath and willed himself to focus on Molly, not on the man who held her in his arms.

She was dressed in a costume like her fellow partygoers though he could only guess as to what she was supposed to be. Possibly a sprite, seeing as her gown of ice blue silk looked as though it had been fashioned with a book of children's fairy tales in mind. Far from the unusual color washing out her fair complexion, it only served to highlight her ethereal grace by bathing her exposed skin in a glow that could be discreetly admired from the other side of the grand ballroom.

Sherlock groaned in self-disgust as he realized how ridiculous his thoughts sounded. His observations were anything but objective this evening. It seemed he couldn't even _look _her way without waxing poetic. All because of an evening gown.

Or, rather, the woman wearing it.

"You look like you could use a drink right about now."

Sherlock jumped a bit as he registered the sultry voice over the orchestra's music. Lady Adler sidled up to him and brandished a tall flute of champagne under his nose before he could even think to give his excuses and hurry away to the card rooms. After a moment's hesitation, he took the proffered glass and reluctantly pried his eyes from the dance floor to focus on his host.

She was dressed in a gown of blood red chiffon with an elaborate headdress to match. Dramatic. Predictable. How His Lordship ever put up with his wife's theatricality remained a great mystery. How the man ever tolerated her blatant flirtations with other men was another mystery altogether.

True to form, Irene immediately mistook his detached persual of her as genuine interest. "Enjoying the view?" she asked, her red lips spread into a coquettish smile. The effect would have rendered any other man speechless with wonder. However, Sherlock continued to regard her with thinly veiled disdain. Though he was a guest in her husband's house, he wasn't above giving her the cut direct if it meant she would cease distracting him.

As if she could somehow read the inner workings of his mind, her smile slowly faded. She dropped her flirtatious demeanor and tilted her head back to boldly appraise him instead. "Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?"

Thoroughly bored with the conversation already, Sherlock shrugged and returned his attention to the crowd of merrymakers.

"However hard you try it's always a self-portrait."

Sherlock scoffed. "What a pity, then, that I forewent a costume this evening."

Irene clucked her disapproval at his answer and drew closer. "I didn't say costume, Mr. Holmes. I said disguise. It's all too plain to see that you're wearing one right now."

Sherlock stepped back and out of her reach. He'd learned to keep his distance from her in his early adulthood, perhaps the hard way. Both John and Mycroft could attest to that.

Yet the lady was nothing if not incorrigible. She pouted and reached out to playfully flick at the top button of his waistcoat. "Oh, don't flatter yourself! I no longer have my sights set on you, darling. I'm recently married, after all." She flashed the priceless gem adorning her ring finger for emphasis.

"As if your marital status ever stopped you before," Sherlock coldly replied.

She brushed aside his remark with a dismissive wave of her hand. "His Lordship is different. He doesn't have an ounce of jealousy in him. Godfrey, on the other hand, was the most cynical man in existence. He may as well have dug his own grave by ignoring the doctor's advice about his lungs." She chuckled and took another champagne flute off a passing footman, not in the least bit dampened by the mention of her previous husband's death. "No matter. That's all in the past, isn't it? What I'm really getting at, dear, is that you're not fooling me with your black, no-fuss evening attire and surliness. You're trying so hard to blend in but something is stopping you from doing so." She took a contemplative sip of her drink and added, "or _someone_, rather."

"Now you're just spewing forth nonsense."

"Hmm." She tapped her nail against the side of her glass. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm right! I know what it feels like to be head over heels in love. What's more, I know what it looks like every time I catch a glimpse of His Lordship only to find him staring back at me." Her smug, satisfied look told Sherlock she was convinced that she had figured him out.

Oddly enough, Sherlock couldn't find it within himself to prove her wrong on that account. He couldn't deny that there was _something _about Molly that made him embarrassingly overprotective of her; he just couldn't pinpoint what it was. He liked her. He could openly admit to that. To be perfectly honest, he liked nearly everything about her. He'd already explained as much to John. He liked the way her smile reached her eyes, when she fumbled over her words in her haste to explain herself, when she surprised him with her courage.

He also liked that she seemed to genuinely care for him. He liked that she had held his hand during their stakeout at the cemetery; when his mind had been reeling and his fear had been dangerously close to interfering with the Work. She had calmed him, grounded him, given him strength in a surprisingly simple way.

Yet no explanation fully explained why he felt the way that he did. Left with no biting retort, he could only level Irene with his best attempt at an intimidating glare.

Not surprisingly, it fell short of its intended effect.

"My, you're in a black mood!" Irene crowed. She knocked back the rest of her champagne and leant in conspiratorially, the red feather of her headdress nearly poking Sherlock's eye out along the way. "Do you want me to have a word with her? She's such a pretty little thing. I've always thought so. It would be my absolute pleasure."

"Stop it."

She bit her rouged lip in a poor display of mock-sympathy. "Sherlock, dear. Why didn't you just ask her to dance when you had the chance?"

"I'm _going_ to…eventually." He was simply waiting for the opportune moment, one where Molly wasn't surrounded by her overzealous suitors. So far he had not experienced any luck but he retained some level of the resolve he'd come equipped with. After all, he couldn't stand in the same spot for the entire evening and expect her to glance his way. He had to take action. And he would. All in good time.

Irene turned to search the crowd at his vague answer, a slight frown wrinkling the bridge of her nose. "Well, for both your sakes I hope it's sooner rather than later."

"Why?" Sherlock scanned the crowd as well, trying his best to distinguish Molly from the vast array of costumed guests twirling about the dance floor. He felt time slow down along with his breathing as a sudden realization hit him; she wasn't anywhere in sight.

Sherlock closed his eyes and massaged his temples, vehemently willing his headache away. When he opened them again, Irene was staring at him, the beginnings of concern etched across her features. "Are you feeling all right?"

Sherlock blinked, brushing off her question with one of his own. "Where did she go?"

"I could be wrong but I think she may have nipped outside for some fresh air." Irene pointed to a pair of French doors on the opposite side of the room. "Over there, you see? They lead out onto the balcony."

The doors were wide open to let in slight breeze that did little to permeate the packed, stuffy room. Strings of twinkling lanterns hung from the balustrade, all of them casting a hazy glow over the enclosed balcony.

"You'd better go." Irene gave him a push to spur him into motion. "_Now. _As you well know, Moran has something of a reputation and your Miss Hooper is in no position to guard her honor if he attempts to take it from her."

Sherlock didn't need any more convincing. After some frantic pushing and shoving he managed to cross the room and whisk outside into the night air, leaving more than a few disgruntled guests in his wake.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: So, I didn't update when I said I would :/ This chapter had a mind of its own and I got a bit carried away with the word count ergo it took me longer than expected to edit. My sincere apologies. All that aside I hope you enjoy it! **

**HUGE THANKS to Mindy (cutepet66 on Tumblr) for the beta read!**

* * *

Molly clutched her shawl about her shoulders as Colonel Sebastian Moran led her deeper inside the private garden that seemed to stretch on for miles behind Lord Adler's residence. Though the entire venue was lit with lanterns, the imposing hedgerows lining either side of the walking path cast shadows all around her, splitting the place into so many twists and turns that she began to lose all sense of direction. Lucky the colonel seemed to know where he was going but he was so far ahead that Molly could scarcely see him.

"It's a bit nippy!" Molly called out, hoping that he would pick up on her obvious discomfort and slow his pace.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," the colonel called back to her. He turned a sharp corner and in Molly's haste to keep up, a pebble lodged itself inside her slipper and immediately cut her foot as she stepped upon it. Wincing from the pain, she limped over to an old stone bench and sat down to remove the little rock from her shoe.

"Everything all right?" Fortunately the colonel sounded close by. One glance up the path confirmed that he had circled back around and was heading her way. Unwilling to wait for his help, Molly slipped off her shoe.

She let out an audible gasp at the sight. A small part of the pebble had penetrated the rough layer of skin covering her heel. Upon closer inspection, she could tell that the sharpest point was wedged into the torn flesh. No wonder it hurt so much!

"Miss Hooper? What's the matter?"

As the colonel made his approach Molly looked up at him, smiling apologetically. "Everything is alright, it's just – I'm sorry. My choice of footwear isn't best suited for this kind of outing."

Without a word, the colonel knelt down in front of her and took her bare ankle into his hands. He turned her foot this way and that, inspecting the cut. "Forgive me for not waiting for you. I was in a hurry to find a fountain that is in the center of the garden but it seems I've forgotten how to get there. In my defense it's been quite a while since Lady Adler has thrown a proper ball. I used to be able to navigate these paths with my eyes closed." He gingerly prodded at the flap of skin hanging off Molly's foot. She sucked in a breath and he glanced up to gauge her reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the makings of a sympathetic smile. "Try to relax. Keep talking to distract yourself. This will feel akin to pulling a splinter."

Molly nodded and closed her eyes, trying her hardest not to focus on the pain. "You may be a bit out of practice in your navigation but I have you beat, I'm afraid. This is the first time I've stepped foot in a garden this size. This is also the first ball of Lady Adler's that I've had the pleasure to attend." Strictly speaking, the costume ball was the first of Lady Adler's functions that she'd been invited to attend at all but that was just too embarrassing to admit in her present company.

"Yes, I gathered as much. I would have noticed you before now if that weren't the case," the colonel mused as he lightly squeezed on her heel to coax the pebble out.

Though she was moved by his words, Molly doubted that he would have noticed her as a wallflower. He wasn't as rich or well-connected as his peers but the colonel remained very popular with the marriageable set. He could have anyone he wanted with a snap of his fingers so the knowledge that he'd singled her out tonight was overwhelming. Of course, Molly couldn't say as much to him. As her mother had repeatedly said to her on their ride over from Berkeley Square, the more confident she appeared the better.

Seeing as her mother's advice had worked like a charm so far, Molly saw no reason to discourage the colonel, especially when he was being so courteous as to see to her cut. "You're too kind," she managed, peeking down to assess his progress.

Most of his face was veiled in shadow but the scant light of the lanterns illuminated his visage enough for her to make out the scar that ran along his right eyebrow and up to his temple. Although the sight was slightly unnerving, her studying the imperfection was a welcome change from watching him poke and prod at her foot.

That was, until he noticed her studying him.

"The scar is usually the first thing people notice about me."

Molly gaped at him, too embarrassed to deny that she'd been blatantly staring at the sliver of raised, mottled skin. The colonel just smiled in understanding and held up the small pebble for her to inspect.

"Thank you!" she breathed, passing him her slipper. He gently tucked her foot back inside its meager padding and then pushed himself up to take the seat beside her on the bench.

"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" he asked, turning to face her.

Molly murmured her agreement and then quieted, still feeling slightly ashamed over her inappropriate fascination with his scar. "I apologize for staring. That was rude of me. I'm not usually so–"

The colonel shook his head in protest. "It's alright. Earned it in the Battle of Waterloo a few years ago."

Molly let that sink in. Somehow the knowledge that he'd earned the scar in battle made the prominent slash of discolored skin less disconcerting. "Was it awful? The war, I mean?"

The colonel scooted closer to her. "Yes, it was awful. It was worth all the pain and bloodshed, though, since I knew that I was doing my part to keep pretty girls like you safe and sound from those Frogs in Napoleon's employ."

Molly didn't know what to say in response to such blatant flattery. She averted her gaze and bit back her nervous smile. Smiling was her default expression in any uncomfortable situation but it was hardly suitable at a time like this. The last thing she wanted was for the colonel to mistake her actions as her way of coyly accepting his advances.

"By God, you are lovely," the colonel exclaimed when she gave no immediate reply. He seemed to be just as encouraged by her silence as he would have been by a smile. Dread began to pool in the pit of Molly's stomach at the notion but Moran, too focused on his own musings to realize her sudden disquiet, continued with his brazen flirtations. "I thought you were plain. Hell, everyone did. But you've been hiding your beauty all this time." With that, he reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from her exposed neckline.

Molly tried not to flinch away from his touch. "Colonel–"

"Call me Seb." He ran a finger along the expanse of her collarbone.

"I-I'm afraid that would be improper," Molly stammered. Goose pimples sprung to the surface of her skin as he continued to touch her. She took the prickling sensation as a sign that it was time to leave so she made to stand.

The colonel grabbed hold of her upper arm and then pulled her flush against him, lowering his head to whisper in her ear. "And walking alone with me through a garden is proper?"

"W-well no, it's not, b-but–" The colonel placed a finger against her lips, effectively cutting off her words. Molly was too stunned to bat his hand away.

The smile he gave in return was positively predatory. "Hush, now. There's no harm in a bit of fun, is there?" He let go of her arm only to rake his hand across her bosom, squeezing and fondling the flesh underneath her gown.

Molly pushed at his hands. "Stop it."

"What if I don't want to?"

She forgot how to breathe for a moment as the weight of his words registered with her. Then her breath came back and made her heart quicken to an uncomfortable pace in her chest. "Please don't. Please."

The colonel gave a satisfied hum and placed his other hand behind her neck, bringing her even closer so that he could capture her mouth in a bruising kiss.

Molly pounded forcefully against his chest but to no avail; he only tightened his hold and resumed his fondling of her body. Soon, blood began to pound in her ears from lack of oxygen. She wanted so desperately to scream but she couldn't, not if she wanted to keep him from shoving his tongue inside her mouth or to avoid his anger. Armed with no other option, Molly completely stilled and tightened her closed lips against his assault.

All of a sudden, his mouth was violently ripped away from hers. He crashed to the ground and in a flurry of motion another man clambered on top of him.

"Keep away from her! Do you understand?"

The words were so venomous and hate-filled that it took Molly a second to realize that the voice belonged to Sherlock. _He_ was the one who had pulled Moran away and wrestled him to the ground, the one who now had his fist raised and poised to strike at the colonel's face at any given second.

"Get off me!" Moran bellowed, violently thrashing about.

"So you can what? Finish what you started?" Sherlock snarled.

"We were just having a bit of fun! Weren't we, Miss Hoop–?"

Before the colonel could finish his sentence, Sherlock took the man's face in his hands and delivered a head-butt with a resounding _thwack_. The blow was so loud that Molly leapt from the bench, afraid that the pair of them had been knocked out from the force of it.

But the head-butt left only one of them incapacitated. Sherlock, too enraged to notice that the other man had fallen unconscious, swung his fist. With a nauseating crack his knuckles connected to bone. Blood gushed freely from the colonel's nose and ran down his face in rivulets.

"Moron." Heaving a grunt of disgust, Sherlock pushed off the ground and swung around to face her. "Did he hurt you?" His voiced was raised and echoed through the ghostly silence of the labyrinthine garden.

Molly swallowed the uncomfortable lump in her throat and fidgeted with her disheveled gown, all the while avoiding his gaze so as not to burst into tears. "N-no. He frightened me, is all." She risked a glance at the huddled heap that was the colonel and immediately wished she hadn't; his face was almost entirely covered with blood.

"He did more than just frighten you." Sherlock stepped around Moran's crumpled form and marched over, stopping just short of invading her personal space. Molly backed away until her shoulders pressed against a brambly hedge. He scoffed at her skittishness and reached for her hand but Molly just shook her head and balled her hands into fists at her side.

"Molly–"

"Don't touch me."

Sherlock froze and let his own hand fall to his side. "Why?"

Molly nodded her head in the colonel's direction. "That...was entirely uncalled for. What will people say when they find him out here? You broke his nose. I wouldn't be surprised if he suffers long term damage from that blow to the head, as well!"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "He deserved it."

"No one deserves to be beaten to a pulp!"

"He did," Sherlock growled. "He disrespected you. He touched you when you didn't want to be touched. He didn't let go when you pleaded for him to stop."

"So you saw fit to intervene and render him unconscious?" Molly hissed, aghast.

"He'll come to. Besides, you would have been unable to extricate yourself from the situation without my help."

"I can fend for myself!" she snapped. "He was kissing me, Sherlock! You're behaving as though he…I don't know…had his way with me!"

"He would have! Can't you see?" Sherlock shouted.

Molly couldn't entirely disagree with his assumption that Moran would have taken advantage of her in some way or another if left to his own devices so she bit back her retort in lieu of giving an answer. At her continued silence, Sherlock raked an unsteady hand down his face. "I was protecting you. For that you should be grateful."

Molly recoiled as if slapped. "I shouldn't feel grateful for anything, Sherlock!"

"Molly–"

"Stop it. Stop talking!" Molly brushed away the tears that were starting to cloud her vision. "I don't need your protection! I could have handled the situation myself if things had escalated–"

"Oh, please! If I hadn't pulled him away he would have had your skirts rucked up around your knees in a matter of minutes!"

Without thinking, Molly raised her hand and slapped him across the cheek. Though the sound of the slap reverberated around them Sherlock didn't so much as flinch.

"Oh, my God…" Her hand stinging and tinged red from the impact, Molly hid her face behind it and crumbled to the ground. She had no idea for how long she cried or how loud her sobs became. After a long while, Sherlock knelt down beside her and pulled her close. Molly put up a fight at first but surrendered when she realized how reassuringly warm and strong his arms felt wrapped around her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, petting her head as one would a cat. But she wasn't a house pet; she was a human and a terrified one at that. The last thing she wanted or needed was a soft spoken, albeit empty, apology.

Consequently she pushed him away, firmly, and stood on shaky legs. "You meant that…what you said. The least you can do is acknowledge the truth. You're not sorry."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times before he gave a slight shake of his head. "No. I'm not."

"I thought as much. In a way, using an apology to placate me…it's more hurtful than the things that the colonel said. The things he did." Molly's voice trembled as she tried to hold back a sob.

"Please tell me you are joking!" Sherlock snapped. "How can you even compare me to him?"

"I'm not comparing you! I'm–" Molly paused to collect her conflicting thoughts and put them into words. "I'm not excusing his behavior, either. I'm not. That was...abominable."

"I'm thrilled we are in agreement about _something_, Molly!" Sherlock ranted, his tone nigh hysterical.

"His actions spoke louder than his words, Sherlock, but even the scant words he did exchange with me were honest. He made no attempt to put on airs for propriety's sake."

"Oh, and that's an admirable trait, is it?"

"Yes!" Molly angrily wiped at another tear. "Everyone, even my family, would rather spare my feelings than be forthright and I can't _stand_ it. I've dealt with it for so many years and I cannot stand it any longer! The apologies when they think they've hurt my feelings, the dishonesty, ignoring me when they _know _I'd rather hear what they truly think of me..."

She glanced up when Sherlock didn't immediately respond. He looked utterly wrecked and not at all the poised, guarded gentleman from before. This was the real Sherlock; this wasn't the man she'd seen in Hyde Park or the one who had waltzed with her so many nights ago. This was the Sherlock who had whisked her away from her sleepy neighborhood to a cemetery, the Sherlock whose hand she held that same night when both their lives had been endangered. This was _her_ Sherlock, with all his flaws and imperfections, but she had no earthly idea how to chip away his unyielding façade to reach the man who lay buried underneath.

So she could only stare back at him, silently willing him to say something, _anything_ that would put her mind at ease.

Sherlock, for his part, at least had the decency to finally acknowledge her words. "Not everyone can afford to be so blatantly honest, Molly. I've found that honesty has its way of turning on you in the end."

"Be dishonest all you want with anyone else, Sherlock, but not with me. Do not hide away for a week and then act as though nothing happened by blaming your absence on a head cold. Do not hold my hand one minute and then treat me like a complete stranger the next. Above all, do _not_ apologize when you do not mean it. My skin is thicker than it seems. I just slapped you for that horrible thing you said, for God's sake! I'm not one to sit idle when hurtful words are thrown at me."

"Then I'm sorry for my dishonesty. I am truly, truly sorry. Is that enough? Can you forgive me?"

"Just…forget about an apology. I've said my part." Molly wiped her eyes again, this time with the fabric of her shawl.

Sherlock gestured helplessly to the space between them. "From your words it appears…it appears I have ruined this, then."

Molly shook her head sadly. "You haven't ruined anything, Sherlock. You've merely opened my eyes to what I've known all along: you'd rather pretend to be someone you're not than place your trust in others. You have trouble letting people in."

"How can I possibly let anyone in if I am certain of their inevitable rejection?"

"But you have let people in, Sherlock! Your brother...and your friend. John Watson?" Molly couldn't help but smile softly at Sherlock's baffled look. "Oh, yes. I know about him. You must have let him in if you're still friends!"

"I let him in but at a great price."

"So do the same for me!" The words left her mouth before she could fully appreciate how embarrassingly desperate they came across.

Miraculously enough, Sherlock paused instead of recoiling in disgust, seemingly lost in thought. "It will not be easy for either of us," he ventured at long last.

"I don't care. It doesn't matter to me. Not one bit. I'd rather know you, Sherlock, than be cast out of your life due to something so easily remedied as a lack of misunderstanding and trust," Molly said fiercely.

"Even if it's entirely conceivable that you'll get hurt along the way?"

"Yes. Even if I get hurt along the way."

"I am not worth all that trouble, Molly."

"You are worth all the trouble, Sherlock. All of it. Do you really think I would have stuck around for this long if I had been bothered by the trouble?"

Sherlock lapsed into silence again, his expression unreadable. He finally answered when Molly gave him an expectant look. "…No."

"Exactly." Molly closed the distance between them. At first they stood toe to toe, taking each other in. Then she reached up to cup his neck and pulled him down so that their foreheads touched. Sherlock stiffened slightly from her touch but gradually relaxed as seconds turned to minutes.

"Stop hiding things from me and _let me in_," Molly urged when the last of his tension finally melted away.

Sherlock nodded and let out a breathy sigh. Molly shivered from the feel of his warm breath ghosting across her skin. The fact that he had allowed this intimate moment to transpire in the first place touched her in a way that no spoken words possibly could. She could get used to this. She could get used to this _very_ quickly.

A week ago the realization would have scared her, but now? Now all she wanted to do was return to the party and keep Sherlock to herself for the rest of the night...keep him as far away as possible from the stunning Lady Adler or any other interested woman, for that matter.

When she timidly revealed this to Sherlock (their new pact of honesty had to go both ways, after all), it wasn't met with contempt or even skepticism. He just laughed. It was a lovely, rich sound and it was so infectious that she lapsed into a round of giggles herself.

When they had both quieted Sherlock held out his hand for her to take. "Then by all means let us return. The sooner the better, in fact. Unless I'm mistaken, and I'm rarely mistaken, mind you, Moran is slowly regaining his consciousness as we speak."

One peek at the colonel told her that Sherlock was right. Moran was stirring. However, before Molly could change her mind or opt to stay behind and look after the man, Sherlock took her hand in his. "Forget about him. He's not worth a second of your time. Ready?"

Molly nodded. "Yes. Ready."

With that, Sherlock led her out of the maze of hedgerows. Molly didn't give Moran so much as a backward glance.

* * *

Notes:

1) Battle of Waterloo: Last battle of the War of the Seventh Coalition (side note: The Seventh Coalition was comprised of Anglo-allied and Prussian troops - basically everyone who opposed Napoleon). Waterloo effectively ended Napoleon's reign as Emperor of France.

2) During the Napoleonic Wars, "Frog" was used as an ethnic slur to describe a Frenchman. Being a British colonel and all, I think it's safe to say that a military man like Moran would have used the expression when talking about the war.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Many thanks for the lovely reviews and feedback! You guys are the best!**

* * *

In the deepest and darkest corner of London, far removed from the lamplighters doing their nightly rounds on the cobblestone streets of the quieting city, Colonel Sebastian Moran bit back a moan as another drop of melted wax splattered onto his bare chest.

A voice, one that he'd learned to associate with pain, suffering and above all debt, pierced the heavy silence of the cellar. "How many is that?"

"F-forty, sir," Sebastian gasped. He strained against the thick rope binding his hands to the back of his chair but stopped as suddenly as he had started. The bondage was far too tight and restricted most movement.

His captor smiled, taking perverse pleasure in his futile attempt to escape. "Sixty more to go."

Sebastian sucked in a shaky breath and stared at the molded ceiling above him. He couldn't bear to look at his tormentor's face any longer. Neither could he stand the way the candlelight flickered to and fro, pratically taunting his helpless state. "Yes sir."

Following his words, another droplet scorched the sensitive flesh of his stomach. A whimper escaped from his throat before he could stop himself.

His master let out a cold, humorless laugh at the sound. "Uncomfortable? Good." The man moved to the other side of the chair, the heels of his boots clacking against the floor. "What baffles me about all of this, Moran, is that you are normally so careful. I can count on one hand the number of times I have punished you before now. Yet last night you managed to botch the simplest of tasks."

A bead of hot wax landed on Sebastian's neck. He swallowed thickly as the wax trickled down the side of his throat. "I lost my bearings. She slowed me down. Even if I had managed to kidnap her, Holmes would have been hot on my heels. He's fast. Faster than you can even imagine. Stronger, too. He knocked me out."

"Excuses, excuses, none of which I want to hear." The madman snuffed out the candle, plunging the room into complete darkness.

Sebastian's stomach clenched in sickening fear as he realized what was going to happen. "No. No! Sir, please!"

He could not hide his agony behind a mere grimace or a sharp intake of breath this time; as a pool of burning wax coated the entire front of his naked body, he screamed at the top of his lungs and thrashed about, the unyielding rope cutting into the flesh of his wrists.

"Allow this to serve as a caveat, Moran," his master said calmly as the screams echoed around the room. "We now know that the key to Holmes is the girl. Do you duty and bring her to me or you'll be the one at the sharp end of my scalpel instead."

**o0o**

On an entirely different side of London, Constable Gregory Lestrade eyed his two guests as they approached the table he'd reserved at the very back of a seedy pub.

"Who is your friend?" the constable asked as soon as the pair had taken their seats.

"He's with me," Holmes said, casting Lestrade an annoyed look from under his ridiculously bushy faux-eyebrows. In the few years of their peculiar and oftentimes strained relationship, not once had the constable seen the well-to-do bachelor in his proper attire. The man was always wearing some sort of disguise to blend in with his surroundings and this meeting was no exception. In addition to the eyebrows, Holmes looked every bit the street urchin; hands filthy with soot, his clothing threadbare and his teeth stained a convincing shade of rotten yellow.

The latter part of the disguise made Lestrade's stomach roil but he stamped down his disgust enough to respond in kind. "I gathered as much, yes, but who is he?"

Holmes curled his lip in a further display of displeasure but grudgingly made introductions. "Lestrade, this is my new assistant...Matthias. Matthias, Constable Gregory Lestrade."

Lestrade turned his attention to the newcomer and held out his hand for the boy to shake. "Hello. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Matthias smiled nervously and returned the handshake but didn't breathe a word. It was all too apparent that the lad was painfully shy. He was young, as well. His big doe eyes and the childlike wonder with which he surveyed his surroundings were both very telling; Matthias wasn't a day over eighteen. Yet first impressions were deceiving. So long as he proved a valuable aid to Holmes's work, Lestrade could care less about the lad's inexperience in crime solving.

"How did you meet Holmes here? Did he follow you home?" Lestrade teased. In lieu of answering the question, Matthias just bowed his head to hide another smile.

"He doesn't like to talk," Holmes explained.

"That can be easily remedied, can't it?" Lestrade murmured. Matthias looked up again at that. Lestrade winked back at him and gestured about the room. "How fortuitous that we've met in a pub where I can get a round of drinks on the house."

"No drinks!" Holmes protested.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh, lighten up for once. The drinks are _free_."

Holmes opened and closed his mouth a few times as he searched for a retort. After a wary sideward glance at Matthias, he crossed his arms in an uncanny imitation of a sulking child on the verge of a temper tantrum. "Fine. If you insist."

"I really do," Lestrade laughed, flagging down a barmaid from across the room.

Once three pints of stout ale were served and the barmaid was tipped and on her merry way, Lestrade leant back in his seat and gave the man across from him a reproachful look. "I'm assuming that you want to tell me something important if this clandestine meeting place is anything to go by."

"You know how my brother can be." Holmes pushed his drink away and gave his young companion a meaningful look to do the same. Matthias avoided him altogether and took a rebellious sip of the ale but nearly choked on account of the bitter taste.

Chuckling, Lestrade reached across the table and gave the boy a hearty pat on his shoulder. "'Atta boy, Matthias! This particular brew takes some getting used to."

Holmes scoffed. "You'll never get used to it, Matthias." He gave the boy a small smile and added gently, "But it will put some hair on your chest, make no mistake."

If Lestrade didn't know any better, he could have sworn that the boy blushed at Holmes's comment. But it had to be a trick of the dim light, surely? Unless...

Across the table, Matthias took another sip of his drink, sneaking a furtive look at Holmes as he did so. A furtive glance full of admiration and reverence with just a trace of longing…oh.

"Do be quiet, Lestrade," Holmes bit out.

Lestrade shook his head to snap out of his distracting thoughts. "I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking."

Color crept high on Lestrade's cheeks at being found out. He _had_ been thinking and of something quite embarrassing, too: that perhaps the reason why Matthias had blushed was because he preferred the company of men to women. It all seemed to fit; disinterest in the voluptuous barmaid, the bashfulness, looking up at Holmes in obvious admiration...Christ, did the man even realize that the boy harbored feelings for him?

Knowing Sherlock Holmes, probably not.

The man in question let out a sigh. "The _case_, Lestrade. Focus."

Matthias wrinkled his nose in confusion. Lestrade cleared his throat and shared a brief yet awkward look with him before turning his attention to Holmes. "What about the case?"

"Three more bodies have been snatched."

That in itself wasn't anything new. A scan of the morning edition of The Times had told Lestrade as much. "I'm aware of that."

"Perhaps I should clarify: three more bodies have been snatched within the past week. The man behind all of this is picking up his pace."

Lestrade took a large gulp of his drink to quell his agitation. "I've told you before and I'll tell you again: there is only so much that I or any other Runner can do about this. A few of our men could try a stakeout but it wouldn't be met with much success. Tongues tend to wag if police get involved. A tip off is enough to deter any criminal from carrying out his crime." Holmes nodded slightly at this explanation and rubbed his right shoulder, lost in thought. Lestrade narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Is there something you'd care to tell me?"

Holmes dismissed the question with a flippant wave of his hand. "None of your business. Get to the point, Lestrade."

The man was bloody insufferable. By all accounts Lestrade should have lost his temper long ago but seeing as they were in a public place, one in which watchful eyes and keen ears were in abundance, he could only do as directed. "Body snatching is a terrible business but no lives are at stake ergo we have no real need to get involved."

"Yet."

Lestrade felt the color drain from his face. "Yet?"

"It's only a matter of time before our culprit decides to experiment on living, breathing victims. There are only so many experiments you can run on a week old corpse. Flesh disintegrates, the smell worsens. You're aware of this; you're a constable." Holmes took his pint of ale in hand and gave it a sniff before taking a cautious sip. "Mark my words. He'll want warm bodies soon."

"Remind me again how you're so certain the man behind this is experimenting on the corpses?"

"I loathe repeating myself and the answer is irrelevant to the matter at hand, so no. I won't."

Lestrade raked a hand down his face in an effort to keep his rising anger in check. "What do you want from me, then?"

The detective's mouth spread into an unsettling smile. "I want city records detailing all medical equipment that has been either lost or stolen within the last few years."

Lestrade guffawed at the very idea of what he was asking. "I don't have that kind of authority!"

"No," Holmes said very quietly. He glanced around the pub to scan for any eavesdroppers and then lowered his voice even more. "But you are able to get in touch with the people that do."

"It will take me awhile," Lestrade hedged. Although the task was doable, it would take a large amount of persuasion on his part for the records to be handed over willingly.

"We have some time," Holmes countered, unperturbed.

Lestrade gave a dubious shake of his head. "Even if you are given access to the records, what makes you so sure that they'll be of any use to the investigation?"

"Oh, that's simple," Holmes answered. "If the records indicate a loss of expensive laboratory equipment, there will only be a few medical schools from which the items have gone missing. It's only a matter of location after that. You can't exactly roll an examination table across London without garnering attention."

"So…what? You think you'll be able to find this man with just the name and location of a medical school?" Lestrade questioned.

"Oh, no, Lestrade, that's where you are mistaken. I don't think I'll be able to find him." Holmes leant across the table and affirmed, "I _know_."

Matthias, who had been listening intently to the conversation for quite some time, cleared his throat. Lestrade tore his gaze away from Holmes and looked over at the strange, quiet boy. Matthias fidgeted in his seat from the newfound attention. After a few moments he opened his mouth to speak. "H-he's right, you know."

Holmes clapped a hand over his eyes and muttered a curse. Lestrade's jaw dropped to the floor.

Although the boy's voice itself was lowered and deceptively gruff, the words that tumbled out of his mouth were undeniably and unmistakably feminine.

But they weren't just feminine in pitch. The words were cultured, refined; the lilt far too sweet a sound for a man or even a boy to possess.

Which could only mean one thing: Matthias wasn't a boy at all.

Lestrade straightened in his seat, his mind reeling from the shock of the sudden revelation. "Well," he ventured at length, his eyes flitting back and forth between the odd pair sitting across from him. "This certainly explains a few things."

To his utter delight, it appeared that the girl wasn't the only uncomfortable one in the room; Holmes's entire face turned bright red from the tips of his ears down to his neck.

"What's your real name, miss?" Lestrade asked.

"Molly, sir," the girl chirped, wringing her hands in her lap.

"Molly." Lestrade nodded his head in her direction and finished off his pint. "Congratulations on having just bested the Master of Disguise here at his own game. That in itself deserves another round of drinks, don't you think?"

Molly's face lit up in a sunny smile at his suggestion.

Holmes's expression, on the other hand, darkened to something vaguely reminiscent of a raincloud.

This, Lestrade decided as he set about ordering three more drinks from the barmaid, was going to be a one hell of an interesting night.


End file.
